You get to a point every now and then
where fun is just another waste of time –
and you don’t know how much
you have left (not near enough),
the house odds so utterly against you
only a miracle (call it grace)
could put you ahead of the game, get you
escorted out slightly woozy, flush with cash
and still you would be light years from home.
Good clean fun being one of the few
egalitarian pleasures given to us
on this planet, those who walk away from it
are deemed to have something inside
gone terribly awry. Or maybe
they just have other business to attend to,
a distant trumpet, dimly familiar, calling them
back
to where in truth they might belong,
far from everything they ever once thought fun.
O child of God, you are an eternal being (per
Meher).
How could you ever run out of time?
