Pinball

before asteroids,
before space invaders,
before X-Box-
there was a sloped table
on four chrome legs.

the top was filthy
pepsi-spilled
and cigarette burned.

the kid,

though,
what he could do
with it!

a pull with a twist
and a knock of the knee
and the little steel ball
was in play.

up and bend

groovin the paint

smirkin the move

all brass balls

the kid would push
at just the right time
and the ball would
bonus X500

a bump to the side
and the ball would
fall in the hole
with a ding! ding! ding!
as he cracked his knuckles
in well, fuck yeah!

the ball would try to escape
maybe down the side alley,
but he was too good
and could bump it back into

siderail torment.

by now,
the ball was weary,
defeated.
as the knock
told the score
and the games piled up.

it tried to race for the exit
there,

down the middle,
but that only played
to his power
and once more
the ball was sky rocketed

in sideways cacophony
bing! bing! bing!
bip! bip! bip!

.......,

I’d like to hold that steel ball,

that cold little steel ball,
in my hand.
rub it warm
like a wounded bird.

I’d like to carry it to an ocean
and bathe it in my palm,

with a one finger stroke.

maybe it and I
would share chardonnay
on a Paris balcony,

laughing to the headlines.

I'd show it the moon,

I suppose,

and roll it

through soft

easy meadows.

or maybe,

just maybe,

I’ll just carry it
in my pocket
til we’re both free
from our glass encasement
and the games
of another’s quarter.

~rick