A Poem by d.n. simmers

Sighs

 “ Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled”
                                                             T. S. Elliot

At the last game that was played. With these hands.
After it was over. Won or lost.
After the equipment had taken us back to the
street clothes. And the others, were put
in a bag, to be washed and forever put away.
There, in the morning, of the dance of the last
Breakout. Or last hit or smash of a racquet, is when
settling of old scores are put away.
In the back cellar, where the old jars are kept.
The packed tins from the last decade are
forgotten. Then, one day as
the whole time is discharged. The old
equipment is given to the kids, or to charity.
Then the next step and the corner where
the same games were being played are viewed.
With a peaceful, but questioning eye. Before
feet take the hands and the body are taken away.
Moving down the lost dreams.
Old hopes. Around the next corner,
of an unknowing morning .


d.n. simmers is an online editor with Fine Lines. He is in the current Nomad's Choir. He
was in the April issue of Poetry Salzburg and is in a newly launched anthology
called Royal City Poets (3). He was in will be in the Storyteller (3 issues) Red
River Review, Iconoclast, Nerve Cowboy. He was in Van Gogh's Ear and
is in the current Prairie Journal.