The Old Athlete


The warrior’s eyes are open
Pillow still beneath his head
As inch by inch he pulls toward
The edges of the bed

The cobwebs slowly lifting
As he rises from his nest
The artificial night is past
Apothecary’s rest

An hour spent in dressing
On this day he’s beat his goal
The surgeon’s good intentions
Notwithstanding take it’s toll

Concussions dim his memory
As the writer takes her seat
And then begins her queries
His old glories to repeat

“One last question,” she inquires
Moving finger on the pad
“Would you do it different
knowing it would be this bad?”

He glances up with sudden start
How strange to you and me
His answer comes without a thought
He says, “Most definitely”.

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