Familiar sounds, familiar smells
Ghosts of a past time
Roam. Each a story tells.
Of days in their prime.
Adorned in dreams and hardwood floors
As anxious fans flooded through my doors
And nervous players waited in nervous shoes
Knowing tonight they cannot lose.
Tickling twine from way downtown
Bumping, shoving, hustling for a rebound.
Heart and soul drips to the ground
As lifetimes are spent counting seconds down.
These things, these times, I've seen
Come and go. Heroes of the minute have been
Carried away, their faces a sweating, shiny sheen.
But I remain, and the man with the buffing machine.
by John-Michael McGinnis