to be boys again

the aging men.
all sizes. all types.
thick with time,
leaning towards the end,
as we run,
and bounce the ball.
the arc of it
falling short, or
long, less and less
into the soft swish
of net.
the sun, like it was
thirty years ago
is where should it should
be, the trees along
the court are gone,
or taller. the brush
thicker, nothing changes,
but us, us men, still coming
in the summer mornings
to be boys again.