To An Athlete Dying Old
That day we won, by God we won,
The girls were thrilled, our foes
undone.
We strutted from the field that
once
With reeling sense of dominance.
Another field we visit here,
Another chance to pray and cheer
The hero of that fading game
That gave us all the gift of
fame.
He’s lying here. He is quite
dead.
A rest for hoariness of head.
His blood and thirst have
quieted,
For fifty years not rioted.
But even though that early theft
Of youth and speed and muscle
heft
Unsettled him, he kept his wit,
He dared again a retrofit.
He built a life of love and care,
Raised up that stonewall over
there,
Grew wise and passed it on as
well.
The kids he schooled by
show-and-tell.
In troubled times he clutched his
wife,
Planned out the coming afterlife.
His thoughts were few of laureled
youths,
Spent time instead on versing
truths.
And as we part this hallowed
place,
Access our cars with little
grace,
This withered man we leave at
rest.
His goodness grown. His life caressed.
DD
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