Carom

Carom

On the green baize, a quiet stage,
the cue‑ball waits in patient gauge,
its polished skin a moonlit sphere,
ready to whisper, “draw us near.”

A tap, a sigh, the stroke takes flight,
a whispered arc through amber light,
it kisses first the object’s red,
then glances off the second’s head—

two contacts born of single thrust,
a geometry of trust and thrust,
the balls converse in click‑clack talk,
their momentum walking, not walking.

The table holds its breath, then sighs,
as angles meet where physics lies,
a perfect carom—pure, austere—
a fleeting duet, crystal clear.

And when the balls come to their rest,
the echo lingers, sharp and blessed:
one stroke, two kisses, fate’s own seam,
the art of carom, a quiet dream.