bound to happen.
we all
got old at the same time.
and
yet
we played on
and on
and on
each weekend morning.
the ball,
the hoop, the paved
court,
white lined.
we were
slower,
heavier, with
less hair,
less energy, but we played
on,
and when
it was over,
we left nothing behind.
perhaps
one day,
we'll choose sides again
and play
on another spring
morning
in the bluest of skies.
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