All Night Arcade

All-Night Arcade

I am playing Galaga in my imagination

in the last century where all around me

kids packed tighter than bees in a hive

labour to master rows of arcade games,

crowding to witness if anyone makes it

to a new level, beats an old high score,

wipes out an army of extra-terrestrials.

Time and space stand still for the price

of a quarter. The universe, a toy parlour,

enshrining the Grand Narrative of Life

and Death. Pixellated blooms burst in

neon cascades across our beatific faces

while the world drags on into the ruins

of the Eighties. Ronald Reagan is shot.

The great hurts and loves of this world

enter into us. Childhood one more urn

in History’s mausoleum. Psychedelic Furs,

My Bloody Valentine, The Jesus and Mary

Chain. Mix-tapes for a new generation

who witness the space shuttle explode,

the Exxon Valdez spill, the Berlin Wall

topple like an empire. In our twenties,

the arcades vanish. The circumference

of the planet enlarges. We leave home

for school or to work jobs in big cities,  

summers in Europe to lose ourselves,

but time is theft, and we soon ascend

to the next round, our thirties, a shiny

millennial collect-a-thon with all new

obstacles to jump over, skill challenges

to undertake. More enemies, less lives.

Nostalgia is a verdict for not living well

which is why in my forties all night long

I sit here watching myself as a teenager

play a video game with time running out,

a pilgrim trying to get to the golden city

at the last level, knowing when the game

is over, neither he nor I will continue.

By Chris Banks