In the bottom of my closet
Sits a dusty old duffel bag.
That smells of triumphs and losses.
Crammed among cleats and balls,
Are my faint but stubborn hopes.
That my body will recover.
Cushioning my kit is that dream
Of an old and wrinkled me
Cackling round the bases.
Harbored and hidden away
Is the life I led for so longThat I have not yet given up on.