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Tilt
The machine lit up
like a small cathedral—
chrome saints hopping
under glass,
the silver gospel
of the pinball
spinning wild
between my hands.
It was my birthday—
twenty-one—
and free beers
rang up like prayers.
Each flipper slap
a hallelujah,
each tilt shrugged off
in neon glare.
The hours blew away
like cheap confetti.
The undulating sidewalk
tilted just before I did,
and the keyhole
danced just out of reach
while my cat waited,
unimpressed.
I woke up hours later
to my worried cat
meowing and
looking up at me.
I leaned in close
to reassure him—
and showered his head
with vomit, dismayed.
He left his verdict
in my shoes—
a damp reminder,
sharp and clear.
Tail high,
he walked away avenged,
his conscience
undisturbed by guilt.
He eventually
forgave me—
as creatures wiser
than us often do.
I cleaned my shoes,
drank far less beer,
and never puked on
my cat again.
Copyright ©
Roxanne Andorfer
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