I Got Next

The smell of copper on our fingers, lingers, long into the evening.

Trill sounds and bright lights, fight… a battle for sensual dominance.

A new callous is worn in the crook of our thumbs, numb, this is the umpteenth Saturday.

Fireballs fly, spears soar; Let’s Go Away to Daytona USA.

Hitting flippers, there stands Tom, high score undone.

Silver and gold, tales told of buttons pushed when nudges roll, through.

Old men cradle minuscule roll up cigarettes, searching for forgotten two pence pieces.

And the carpet crunches underfoot, as we look,

for another root through the crowds to find old faithful with a line already forming.

He performs tricks and skills as each man falls and another steps up,

clutching the reward from broken parents claiming,

I got next.

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