Fingers slip out of the holes
And the ball hits the creaking wood, rolling, spinning, turning,
hurtling onto the target
With a crack of a sound rams headlong
Bringing them down in a tumbling mass of pins
All 8 of them; save 1
Twist of fate or plain lucky;
Stronger and hopeful, or praying and waiting;
Different from the world or simply lonely!
How does, the lone standing one feel?
I wonder...
