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.