A Youthful of Trophies
In a box at the top of the closet sits a youthful of trophies,
Memories of former glories and success;
A game played, a tourney won, a shot made, a run scored,
Rewarding team efforts and individual achievement.
Now these trophies are a nest for spiders,
whose webs cover them with draped stickiness,
whose eyes are the only eyes that see them now
As they walk across the faces of the dust covered ballplayers,
Which formerly shone of golden chrome.
But there is no shine, there is no luster.
There at the top of the closet, protected from decay, they grow older.
But their recipient has aged, has grown heavier--his body out of tone.
He could no longer dream of participating in former wars of glory.
So of what use these miniature statues from the past?
Of what value at the flea market? A dollar, maybe less?
They taunt the former athlete, lying in the box,
Reminding him of past glories, shouting, "Has been! Has been!"
But today the box is off the shelf, on the bed, a damp rag removing the cobwebs.
Each one is observed and remembered as the dust is removed.
Then each one, one by one, is replaced in the box with care,
at the box is again placed at the top of the closet;
And with a sigh he mumbles, "Maybe, tomorrow, I will start jogging."
I wrote this poem seven or eight years ago, shortly before I sent most of my trophies to the D.I. (Goodwill) for use by someone else. I guess it took a while to say goodbye.