His days are numbered
cumbered and layerd
with vice
well whithered hours
mix with sour
moments believed
to be lost
and he wonders
if the price was
worth the cost.
His hands lay bare
tattered and worn
from gageing to
wiring, saddles
and thorn
as they cast
credit on framed
fame
ages gone
his was the life to be
grand
now he sits in empty stands
waiting for the field
to blossom with fierce
beasts
claw, talon, and shields
but sometimes he wonders
why he is here.
His, wife is beautifuly
aging, she works in
the office
mingles the
papers
His children are grown
some forgot
some known
all are proudly his and
most would say
he’s everyone’s trust
But he wonders
has it
been enough.
Most days he
lectures morning
tradition of wood, shop
and farthing
lingers in hallways
leather on paved
doorways
After the noon
he picks up the skin
and teaches
what it takes to win
but what are they winning
when the timer is up
when the moment of luck
wears out and
all they have
is looking at them selves.
As fading features
fade farther under glass
pondering
will he say enough.
Will he
say
enough.
Coach…. Coach…
we’re ready….
Stumble, tumble,
meander and maze
he takes a breath in
as words work on
the way
out of his mind into
the air, held for a
second on tongue
cheek and hair
before diving
in.
“We
suffer this field
day in
day out
we bleed for the ‘Mater
the glory and crowd.
We tramble those
who dare to engage
we revel in
glory
or languish when
halls of great men
call others to their side.
We wear colors and letters
with pride
but…”
His conjuntion lending
silence a nod
as he looks to
the glowing board for
council and pause
as almost men
wait
they… wait
“but what is worth a life
if that life does not find
life worthy?
You are not just warriors
you are leaders and
take care
those you trample should
ONLY be out HERE!
The halls and ways
of the walls of our
days hold our
souls they are the
same, different
scuffle, shadows
of forgotten shoes
they are less and more
rich and poor
they are
you
they are your charges
not stones to be kicked
not boards for bantering
your bitting wit
Not the conquest of your
smaller mind
not the details found
on cheaper wine
they are your concern
care and court
they give weight to
your sport
for if they did not
exist
your worthy game
would not be
worth
playing…
am I making sense?
Treat that place
as what you protect
not what you pillage
because what you pillage
may come to haunt
you…. when time
clock and luck
run out.”
He tosses the ‘back
the worn out frame
one face circled
in the crowd of
hundreds.
And inquisitive faces
return nothing
as coach’s
back
fading.
“Figure it out
see you at
practice
on Tuesday.”
saying it anyway 