His perpetual limp rises to the challenge:
he races to the tennis ball,
old, frail, but exploding with energy,
refusing to act his age (fifteen).
He teeters like a weeble,
returns the ball with a few noisy chomps,
every inch coated with slobber.
Rump in the air, tail frantically wagging, he looks up at me,
and cautiously, as though picking up a mouse,
I take the ball lightly to begin the game again.
Weeble watches closely,
never loses sight of the ball.
Age slowly creeps into the game.
The stench of a sewer rises in his breath
His limbs move slower weighed down.
Specks of blood appear on the ball.
Breaths escaping loudly, scarred tongue hanging,
Weeble holds the ball.
BINABASA MO ANG
Poems for the Soul
PoetryRandom Poems I have written throughout my life....and just so everyone is clear, I ain't a poem writer ^.^
