Ringer

— Harry Lafnear

Felt sack with a hundred marbles
dropped when I was ten,
one dark evening in the parking lot,
the nine-month sum of wins and losses bursting
in all directions.

Memories are like that too. Even this one.
We do lose our marbles.
Some we catch again, spinning near our shoes,
but others make it to the hill or the gutter
or are found again after years,
when the TV depicts a model of the big bang:
the entire universe exploding from its blazing bag,
a flash, like headlights, cooling to reveal
the cat’s-eyes of galaxies careening from the scene.

Though at ten i cursed it,
suddenly I sympathize with the bag.
I am figuratively falling–
have been falling for all my days,
the dropper now the dropped–
and this body, no better
than a felt sack with a tattered seam,
despite any dark distance left,
will someday surely spill,
though it is not when? that I wonder, but what?

Marbles?
Or galaxies?

One thought on “Ringer

  1. I like the little boy at ten and know what he felt but at my age I wonder about the when. Sometimes it seems like I can count the marbles left on one handhoping it will be galaxies.

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