always the one to chase after
a stray ball
so obviously
the carnage of a companion
long since passed
the wrinkles of his hands
fold over
nearly the entire grip
blue/brown/green/hazel penetrate his
own determination
from underneath
the rim of a baseball cap
(a team logo i can’t remember
because i’m unfamiliar with
sports in general)
in the way
of his once
powerful swing
an oversized 1970s olympic track jacket
droops and catches
the lake front gust like a kite
i wish i could tell if that was a smile on his face
his opponent
merely a memory
on the other side of the net