Murderer

I killed the play ball. Now, I'm wracked with guilt.
I dug it from beneath the devil's club, where it
Had lain for years, neglected, not forgotten.
I just never had the means to reach it. There
It stayed, alone, alive, still round, still holding
Air. I finally found the means to extricate it
From the thorns, and asked myself, since it
Still lived, if I should fill it up again, and wash
It off, and place it in the basket with the other
Balls. Perhaps someone would play with it,
I wished, but I knew no one would. The years
Outside had left it blemished, bleached to almost
White on one side, sunny yellow on the other.
Even kids are prejudiced. They wouldn't use
A mottled ball, so cleaning it and keeping it
Were pointless. I'd dispose of it, a fate the ball
Did not deserve, and, worse, because it took
Up space, I chose to stab it, make it flat. I
Murdered that ball heartlessly. I grieve.
I'm filled with guilt.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 44 times
Written on 2020-03-30 at 00:14

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