the top

it seems to be less popular

than when I was a grade-schooler. 

threaded, wound, and tossed

to the pavement, the bloated

wooden body spun like a neutron star

some beaten and scarred

with fading color patterns

others exhibiting the vacant

glance of a wallflower.

but the spinning was exhilarating

with a sort-of whizzing,

a sort-of whispering sound

moving across the pavement,

its metal foot

tapping over rough terrain

in search of permanence, and then..

the inevitable end of its run;

the wobbling of the top

descending like old age,

like Pluto around the Sun,

like an inebriated grandfather

heading for home

then dropping to the tarmac of the schoolyard and to stillness.