MARBLE ALLEY

Lunchtime hour at my junior high school
turned the playground into marble alley,
little troughs dug in the dirt,
pyramids of those glass balls
awaiting nimble fingers and keen vision,
for a chance to shoot and knock the pile down
so we could gain them as prize.

Oh how every kid who thought he was a cat’s eye master
gave a try at winning those stacked treasures,
one eye closed, the other staring intently,
down on his knees with left hand supporting his weight,
tongue sticking out with right hand in a fist
while thumb presses against the back of his round little gem,
then flicks it like an archer releasing an arrow
waiting with inhaled anxiety and pounding chest
to see if that aim was perfect.

How this became and epidemic of obsession,
we all were consumed in our game,
proudly toting our collection into class,
that small pouch with its aggie arsenal
having its strings tied around our belts.

What lust was inflamed for those steely diamonds,
driving us to such insane deeds,
trading desserts in cafeteria
for some more of those spheres of clay beads,
a brownie would get you six,
two cookies maybe three,
just compelled to have another crystalline globe
as a bullet for that battleground dirt
of our marbleized passions.

There were always the vile rats
who brought their lunches from home
how dare they bring pop tarts to barter
they were like gold.

It all was that heart pounding thrill
when we were in seventh grade
before puberty kicked in and girls became our rage,
but for those special days
nothing was a more rush unto the soul
than strike it rich in marble alley
walking away feeling like a god.