Marbles Poem by Donal Mahoney

When you get old
it’s nice to have all your marbles
even if you can’t count them

even if they look the same color
even if you can no longer hear them
bounce off each other when your son

brings your grandson over
and he shoots marbles all over
the house and they careen

like your thoughts this morning
as you try to recall where you put
the marbles after the boy went home

and you get down on your hands
and knees and feel around and find them
so when the boy comes over again

you can hand him the marble bag
because your son just called
and the boy will be here in an hour

laughing and shouting and wanting
to shoot marbles all over the house
like heads rolling in Syria and Iraq