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Fleener the Librarian showed me how to play with ooglies and smoothies and glassies on a battlefield ringed in chalk.
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Each night, the riders return and stable themselves in top-drawer comfort painted green. Think them safe, think them constant, and rest assured as weary.
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Pink speckled green speckled red conjuring ribbons of clear with sleight of hand. Identity circumnavigates each globe as burrowing clouds in eternal sunset.
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On a day when travel was forbade on pretense of impropriety, the stable doors let loose their prize possession and allow them to bolt, abetted.
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Aim for center, flick to click. The rush to possible conquest distracts the shooter’s roll and finds instead another to claim. Serendipity.
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Champions no more, the swirls rolled away from me as I slept, still clackety for invisible patrons yet scattered in my mind where they remain mibs for another shooter.
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My sack weighs heavy with joy over its content; My bag announces its strength in clackety crashes, staccato as cracking knuckles before the fight.
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I was never asked for their leave and so left them buried in thought, the inevitable and unsuspecting defeat of a childhood game dominated by adults.
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Each day brings glory in tiny balls of victory too numerous for the original pouch, too fond of the future to rest content with spare room.
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Perhaps exchanged for quarters parked briefly in a garage; Possibly acquired for spite to prove a point of order. Phased out by maternal instinct.
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The glory travels with smiles in carriages fit for things and rides along in search of others of its kind to grow through assimilation.
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