Silence penetrates beneath bright lights,
and something creaks beneath my sight.
Is it the floor? I can’t be too sure anymore.
Left or right, my knees don’t move like before.
The hinges creak with bend and stretch,
old age has found its way inside.
As injury makes a final sketch
upon my youthful, easy stride.
Time passes fast, each stretch I do
just serves to help me follow through.
The ball sits, watching, near the wall,
in pondering thought of if I’ll fall.
I make my way to feel the sphere,
its leather face and dusty suit.
And back I walk, heart full of fear,
Can I bend my knees to shoot?