Lament for a Lost Hockey Season for Old Men
Our sticks crane their necks as they wait by the door.
They long to be held, but their prospects are poor.
Our regular dates
were at Thursday night skates.
But all dreams of smooth passes, we must now ignore.
The virus still rages, the rink’s under lock.
Our plans to start playing, mere locker room talk.
Since some of our corps
are approaching four score,
the vaccine we most need … must turn back the clock.
Our knee joints grow frozen, our stick-skills grow cold.
Our skate blades grow rusty, our bags grow green mold.
The one hidden prize
of our season’s demise?
The tales of our exploits grow taller, more bold!