Ball

He’s good. He drops it

fewer times than me.

I hold it, conscious

of it, fumble, feel it

slip from my hands

in a sea of syllables;

or try hard to ignore it,

straight-backed, haughty

with driest prose,

watch it from the corner

of my eye slap on the tiles,

no bounce.

                  You have it though –

the knack, the flow. The grace.

I covet it, I envy you.

I say ‘One day’ but roll out

my trajectory and realise

nothing lasts that long.

I’ll make do with keeping it aloft

a little more each year,

relishing the time it spends

in overeager hands.