there are two occasions for breaking the rules. the first time
you tilt the machine, you are hoping to impress the girl with the long face,
the neat ankles, the small freckle balanced on her cheek
like longing that appears as an after-sun effect. the gates are lined up,
and the silver ball bearing zigzags lazily against the boards,
denying gravity, floating freestyle, writing her name
in sibilant z’s, a new rosary no one notices
in the smoke and jukebox music. you are connecting,
the points are jamming the counter,
turning over so rapidly they freeze
zero zero zero
a long blank stare she turns on you,
witch, pausing your trigger finger just long enough
to turn your luck, the gates yawning,
and you sliding through, catching on nothing
the air rushing pure and cold and free around your heart,
breaking now, knowing winning is not enough.
years later, on your tour back home, the small dusty
city seems impossible, the bar empty and echoing, melamine surfaces
skittering your drink across the table.
that 5 A.M. feeling when your brother phones,
just another call from the holding tank—
are you good for bail, can you make it
before she gets in and sees he hasn’t been home all night?
your brother is the first-born son, bears the scars
of your parents’ expectations. like a stag with broken stem,
he carried you all his life,
hoisted you on his shoulders above the crush,
proud of your intelligence. you’re the one
who’s getting out of this town, you’re the man,
and this is the moment when you see the game suspended,
the ball gliding silently in absolute promise,
the flipper bowing down in grace, ready to send you
out of this world, and all it takes is one breath
of absolution, one moment of leaning over,
one small, slight push that is against all rules
and everything will be all right this time.