The Line


A line, a queue, is distance ‘tween two points.

While the future end of ours did not change,

It grew back where we stepped in, human joints.

Two hundred souls we saw within our range.


Slow mem’ry prattled as closer we drew

Toward the building of mystifying fears

Sporadic and crisp spring wind trembled through

Struggled to hide anticipated tears.


Too quickly end grasped us—Tim’s endless dream.

Why, how, my mind shouted. This could be me

Or anyone from our young baseball team

Ending this enduring line of mem’ry.


Though he won’t play third or tip his cap brim,

Our bonded team crossed the distance with Tim.


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