Steady Hands

 

The ball, she rolls, around and ‘round,

Whirring through the gates and chutes. 

Buzzers and lights flash bout trying to distract.

Focus cannot be sheared like electric sheep

As man versus machine becomes the war,

Each slap of the sides of the box, increasing score.

The numbers only matter slightly

There’s no true prize to be won in this battle,

Except for the possibility of another game.