Gingerly.

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?

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