the game

as the old men
gather
at the end
of a game, a
game stretched
well into
years beyond
playing well,
but with spurts
of glory still
apparent in the
arc of shots
settling into
rusted rims
and bent
backboards, they
sit and ponder,
talk of yesterday
and maybe lunch,
maybe dinner
some night with
a wife, a girlfriend
or just guys to
go out and
ponder even more.
and you fight
the end, the beginning
of something new
as they do,
as they keep
coming, dribbling,
pounding up and
down the cement
court, it's not
over you whisper
and smile, and
know quite well
the truth.