Day 637

Here is the place
where we played ball.
Here was a field, a street.
Here there were houses; there
you can see the remains of a school.
Here was the time
when we walked out the door
and found our friends waiting.
Here were the bright afternoons,
hot in summer, crisp in autumn,
when we learned to kick hard,
to run fast, punt
with our heads.  Here we shouted
to each other when someone
scored, here we taught one another
how to play better. 
Here we were happy.
So we take this ball, kick it
into the fetid air, the smoke, the dust.
Someone kicks it back, beyond us:
those piles of rubble 
to the left, the right,
can be our goals. We will play
despite everything. When,
why, would we ever stop
playing?