Blink and hours give way to the harsh rebuke of day,
with strike one: resurrected failures —
failures that replay one by one
from yesterday’s failed pitches on and on.
If he could hear it,
to his, “Can I ever win?” exists a time-worn answer
stuck in the clouds of melancholy that hover
near the golden trophy.
“Can I ever win?” his eyes point up at his maker
and not me; But I, too, see what contests re-screen
in his dim face, tuneless voice, and languid stride.
Can a fellow laurel-seeker say anything soothing
Besides try, try, try again?
What is the unsung key to life?
What if she just smiles?
. . . She can be a small light.
Me, I resort to this little light of mine,
and the hymn for those with wayward shine.
Silly with hope;
But he may catch the tune, and the light.