A flat green box upon the runner comes,
where studded holes absorb the thinning air.
With every huff and puff his last breath is near,
just one more brush with yester-year.
A rolling ball for which his work is done,
his ailing soul contorts to flare.
With every push and shove his goal is clear,
just one more step to hear those cheers.
A wide-open net beckons his shots to come,
as broken dreams appease his distant stare.
With every grunt and grind the pitch is fully aware,
the premise for mending his ageing fears.
A whistle blows to stop the running ones,
where bodies rage against time as they dare.
With every dribble and every pass, so close and yet so far.
Like tomorrow’s noon, now the playing field is bare.