Fair Game

In some ways, for me, this world seems to be
A cheerless contest, an endless game,
Of pinball, say,
That some can play with dexterous ease,
That I don't seem able to master.
I slip a coin in the hip-high slot
And pull on the plunger; the steelie's released
And rumbles quite nicely along its arc.
It loses energy, altitude, nerve;
Ka-chong and ka-ching go the bumper-bells.
Swat! and the spherelet soars,
But only so far
Before a rogue of a trapdoor opens
And swallows it up.
My turn is over—now here comes the champ,
Mr. Magic Touch.
He knows when and how to bump and grind
Without invoking T-I-L-T;
The silver orb scrambles across the field
To meet his demands:
A flag's struck here, a rowel's spun there;
Thirty thousand, fifty, then slopbuckets more;
The ball drops into a blinking brinked hole,
And bonuses light up his passive face.
No stopping him now!
He hogs the machine and amasses a zillion
Until—with utmost ennui—he yawns
And calls it quits.
Guys like him are born with the knack,
And though the tenacious student may learn,
The rest of us must be content
To stand in the shadows and watch.

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Fair Game