Blown Across the Table

Upon the tabletop, the tiny sphere
Is sent with breath, no paddle in the hand.
Two players lean, their eyes intent and clear,
Each point a battle carefully planned.

The rails contain the bouncing, drifting ball,
While laughter hums beneath the frantic blow.
A sudden gust will change the play’s freefall,
And fans lean close to watch its forward flow.

The score ticks up: eleven, yet by two
The victor must be crowned in measured round.
Each service blows, each counter carefully drew,
No quieter sport could hold such sight and sound.

From school gym floor to college bar delight,
The pinging sphere dances in the playful fight.