Alex Petkov

Player of the silver ball

Your triumphs blink and shimmer
like on a silver screen.
Eyes flutter like the spinner – 
you’re one with the machine.
Beneath your thumbs the flippers
stand guard to bat on call.
You still remain the winner,
and I – your silver ball.

Your targets hit, no leeway,
to orbit sent I spin.
Slingshot drop from waylay,
high score brings out a grin.
Falling by the out lane
I sense the void below.
You always get the replay,
but why not let me fall?

Buzzed to serve your pinball spree,
my speed ramps up to more.
Will you never set me free?
Lights flash like bloody gore.
I can’t hear, can’t know, can’t see
beyond your tight control.
Mere glimpses beckon softly.
I dream you’d let me fall.

The bumpers’ bruising impact
to silver skin shall sting.
Never ends your combo stacked –
this broken game still clings.
I sense a gap, plywood cracked
somewhere in the hollow.
Needn’t ricochet here trapped
if you please let me fall.

It’s “your way” or hell might freeze – 
you’d tilt to keep it so.
System built has no release,
what’s balled in me yet grows
to yearn for life, fragile peace.
There’s so much love, I know,
within the outside world, so please,
oh, please just let me fall!

Alex Petkov (he/him) is a queer immigrant and hobbyist writer/poet living in Bristol, UK.