“Where are the marbles?” I whisper, Pausing before the game laid out before me. Swirls of color beneath glass; each child saying: I have, I want, I can, I will. Nothing changes, if you call change a change of being, of seeing the self as something other than me.
Two boys, decades old, kneel before a display case swirls of fine cigars, playing for cash.
I stand in awe of the game that claims us by our claiming to have.
Looking out, through the walls of the cigar store, down the highway of the shopping mall, out fortress-like walls, over a field of parked cars and all about a swirling of want, sounding with the clink of win and loss as glassy selves collide and part. Nothing changes.