OLD WOOD

 

 

 

Each day 

empties its load

on a tired soul 

that “can’t-take-it-no-more”

what once, was play,

now is a chore

the grind…

the innings…

and finally,

the score.

 

the threadbare uni

you once wore

hangs on your bones

 like an open sore

Once your glory,

Torn to rags …

Tattered, patched,

And filled with pangs.

the battered old cleats

now worn down

in that wicked game,

longtime gone.

 

arm shot

back broke

no muscle left

to make it a race

now the stadium, 

an empty place

and you old wood

have been 

chopped away

 

What confronts you

Constrains you …

Contains you

Nags you

and finally

defeats you

 

Sunset on the ball-field

Where you once a slaved

the chalk lines 

now faded away

and youth with pepper

now take your place­. 

 

tomorrow ends here,

…here, today.

 

 

 

V