By Michael H. Sato

The days had grown shorter,
The dusk deepened
And we’d been called once,
Maybe twice, to return home.
Some went but enough of us
Stayed to play on, some
Switching sides as we argued
About the score,
Who touched the ball last.
Someone in the deepening dark
Said maybe we should quit
But we all said, No,
We have to continue playing.
A mother could say
Tomorrow’s another day
When the game can continue,
But we wouldn’t know that,
Not until we were older
And then it was too late
And then it was no longer true.

Copyright Sato 2015