The Game
The sound of a quarter on a table,
It is distinct.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You ask me for a quarter
But I don’t have one.
Yet somehow, you always get one:
This is how our day starts
The bell has rung, and class is beginning
And they are arguing about who is winning.
Spinning, stopping, and sliding with no remorse
But before I step, in nature takes its course:
The spinning stops, the quarter falls to the floor
Playing this game shall be no more.
You ask me for a pencil
I tell you mine is on the desk.
This is how our day starts.
The game is won, nonetheless.
