Over the hill...

He plays hoop with his chums

At the tarmac ground

Unsuccessful he shoots as if a stray

Cannon ball, uselessly lost to oblivion

Circles he runs till out of breath

Shorts long, socks gathered like pools at his ankles

Hands on thighs, his torso waist bent

Trying to catch the last of his summer breath

Tribal tats case shrivelled skin

In his hay day his arms so strong

Diamonte earing gleaming in his earlobe

Trying to recapture a demonstration of his youth.

His last attempt to reach for the clouds

Failed attempts leave him heavy breathing

His genealogy is what he says is to blame

Unable to monkey hang and swing from the rim

Its summer again and he can’t pull a mesmerised crowd

So resorts to swearing at passing children

Before he heads off down the pub

To rest his weary bones, get plastered and eventually pass out.