poem

 National ChampionshipThis is the game for all the marblesEveryone tunes in and watches until the endThe victor gets every single marble Which must be carried out by hand.One player, the captain, the hero —take your pickIs selected to be the marble bearer.If he drops a single marble The laugh track kicks inBut it ’s an audio loop of walruses gigglingAnd no one knows what it means. The studio hosts, retired linebackersOr whatever, stuffed into designer suits,Act like they don ’t see itAnd go back to telestrating howTo make enormous piles of moneyWithout doing anything meaningful at all.No one seems to care about the marbleSo he drops the rest of themAnd shotguns a beer.Some hit the hard floor With a sharp pingLike hail againstYour glass face. Some shatter into fragmentsOf a wasted consciousness. Others fracture only on the inside.Connoisseurs with monocles hold them up toThe light and write down a numberIn a leather bound book.  Only the dorks know what it means. Most of them end up boundingDown the basement stairsInto the scary cobwebby darknessAnd come to rest next to empty paint cansThat should have been tossed outWith the dusty plastic trophies decades ago. By now, of course, everyone has stopped watching.1/26/24

Source: Buckeye Surgeon - January 26, 2024 Category: Surgery Authors: Jeffrey Parks MD FACS Source Type: blogs