The Red Ball or What Your Old Toys Do When They're Sixty

The red ball,
which really could have
meant anything,
been any color,
been rubber…plastic, even a bean bag,
said “Life’s competition
and one must move,
quick or place near the end.”

Then he began to roll.

He’d raced before,
this was no different,
and the wind was in him.
Strong.

But little did he know,
then and there,
the freefall was over,
and the bounce, though large,
just long enough to let him speak.

And once he had,
he stared into gravity,
his sides aching,
his sight dim;
for the sides of the bay,
were almost spoonshaped.

The trees slow moving.

The sky like a snail—

that type of gray all of it.

And there was a single man,
his clothes and skin
like everything else, holding
a flag to his side.

But soon, he just turned and left.

In the middle of the road
where he’d been,
in some patch of light—also gray,
no one lived,
nothing came,
then or a long time afterward.

But most
certainly nothing ever before.

The Red Ball or What Your Old Toys Do When They're Sixty

Semein Washington

Portsmouth, United States

  • Artist
    Notes
  • Artwork Comments 1

Artist's Description

The narrative of a simple, personified thing.

Artwork Comments

  • janeymac
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