The table is flat, a plane of green,
where spheres collide—unfelt, unseen.
Like atoms dance in heated space,
they click and spin with Newton’s grace.
First Law: No force, no speed decays,
a rolling ball won’t change its ways.
Yet friction hums, the velvet bite,
translating *v* to warming light.
Second Law: The break is cast—
disorder blooms, the scatter vast.
A perfect rack, precise, aligned,
now chaos rules the felted plane.
The cue’s firm strike, kinetic art,
transfers its *p* with perfect math.
Elastic shock—no loss, no gain—
yet entropy will break the game.
Thermal death? Perhaps. But wait—
one pocket holds a wayward eight.
A quantum joke, a fleeting state,
where chance and law negotiate.
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