Chain of Foos
My dormitory common room
was where I saw my talent bloom,
For any hour, free to use,
was table soccer, known as foos.
Four handles you can slide and flick—
the hits are hard, the action quick.
There’s study time for every test,
the foosball table took the rest.
I learned to block, I learned to pass.
I skipped my composition class.
(I figured I had got the gist,
and notetaking could cramp my wrist.)
By second term, I ruled the floor.
I never bothered keeping score—
my games were like a snare drum roll
of echoes in the rival goal.
Then, confident that I was able
to hold a tavern foosball table,
I set off on my new career
with coins for foos, and bills for beer.
The rules provide efficient play—
contenders’ coin, the winners stay.
I could all but guarantee
that I would play all night for free.
My first game was an easy win—
some amateur who liked to spin
and hope for geometric luck.
I hit him like a semi truck.
Opponents came. I beat each one.
My shots unnerved, my blocks would stun.
I’d be the one who’d never lose—
the anchor on the chain of foos.
But then I saw him shuffle in,
his glasses thick, his forearms thin.
Four silver coins refreshed the rack.
I readied for my first attack.
My hit was captured by his goalie.
Then, I swear by all that’s holy,
from way back there, he found a hole
which threaded through into my goal.
I’d thought I understood this sport—
each move I made met blunt retort.
No offense shot would he forgive.
My defense functioned like a sieve.
It steadily was plain to see
this player got the best of me,
and even with some lucky aim,
I had no hope to win the game.
My title stripped, dominion crumbled,
this foosball giant left me humbled.
I asked the champ if he would tell
me how he learned to play so well.
He answered with a timid “yup”—
his training came by growing up
with absent father, working mother,
basement foos, and older brother.
Crabapple Tree
Raindrops knock the blossom petals,
hundreds break and flutter down—
a gentle snow that swirls, then settles
into sticky scales of brown.
Next, the reddish fruits of goo
bombard the sidewalk like a carpet,
stick to tread lines of my shoe,
and turn my foyer to a tarpit.
Advertised as ornamental
(bringing out my inner crab),
they should warn of excremental
fruits as lovely as a scab.
Why weren’t kindred birds imported,
nesting in its canopy—
ones whose diet would have thwarted
litter from this awful tree?
But then, for precious days in May,
A beauty almost worth the pain—
each bud presents its pink bouquet,
until the blossoms meet the rain.
To the Driver Behind Me at Rush Hour
There is no road ahead for you to steal.
Your road rage will not change the way I drive.
You only have two pedals and a wheel.
Believe me, I have nothing to conceal—
there’s no agenda crafted to deprive
you any inch of road ahead to steal.
This honking ceaselessly will just reveal
you’re not the sharpest Hornet in the hive.
I, too, have only pedals and a wheel.
You race ahead, then brake till tires squeal.
It hurts your ego, driving forty five.
There is no road ahead of me to steal.
You’ll never reach the speed you think ideal,
engage your cruise control or overdrive.
You only have two pedals and a wheel.
Ahead, the brake lights slalom like an eel
as merging turtles steadily arrive.
There is no road ahead of me to steal—
so impotent, those pedals and that wheel.
Ad Ad Astra
“A message beamed into space invites aliens to visit Lexington, Kentucky”
—The Washington Post
Attention, all alien tourists of space:
let Lexington be your terrestrial base!
You’ll cut fancy circles on golf’s premier courses
and probe the behinds of award-winning horses.
To meet with our leaders or plan an invasion,
our conference center hosts any occasion.
So whether your business is world-wide destruction
or merely a casual beam-up abduction,
you’ll thank your home stars for becoming so lucky
you landed your saucer in scenic Kentucky!
Marshall Begel 