The Ball
A round, soft, hard, plastic ball
Like a giant marble in plastic filled
Not with solidness but with air;
Or an aniseed ball, a light aniseed ball,
Never to be eaten or sucked:
Dead.
Dead in its own world
Yet alive until the end of the day
When it’s dead again.
An imitation, not real,
Not leather.
An imitation ball
Shaped as a leather ball
But not as hard;
Soft
Like snow,
Yet hard
To be kicked around by rough boys.
And in the end really die,
Punctured, a real dead ball,
Discarded
And forgotten:
Without air.