The Air Hockey Fiend

I love the beast hidden within me,

sneakily behind these quiet eyes,

only unleased

when it is time to unwind

with a good ol' game

of air hockey.

 

The two shiny quarters in my palm

slide easily from my hand

to the machine of my being,

the place of my power,

the skating rink's air hockey table.

 

The plastic handle within my grasp,

the Cheeto colored puck set on the counter,

my heart racing, my opponent fearful,

soft air tickling my skin.

I am alive.

 

The smack of the first shot,

the blood rush of adrenaline,

the cha-clink of my goal, 

the sight of my triumphant score.

My ego is about to burst.

 

Good games and goodbyes all spoken,

quarterless jean pockets,

lightless, airless table.

The beast retreats again

until next time.

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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