The Boys of Summer
have hung up their cleats
some in victory others in
defeat who are left to ruminate
and say,“ wait til next year,”
meanwhile, rising up early
Sunday morning coming
down again like in that song
pondering over a steaming
cup no mocoa crappa
latte here awake before the dawn
or anything else sitting silent repose
prayers and contemplation if not
meditation still and alone
writing down the bones
distilling thoughts searching
my heart looking for soul
keeping quiet open mouthed
breathing easy not speaking
thoughts talking loud
later on with one eye on
football without my old man
alone on an autumn afternoon
and the once and future
champions have already hung up
their rock-n-roll shoes
knowing on any given Sunday
the game ends too soon
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