Going Through My Fathers Attic
The torn Rawlings symbol,
old worn leather
faded light brown,
fingers coming apart.
In its web pocket,
sits a ball, which is
almost as abused,
as the leather.
Back then,
it was to big for me,
and looked
clumsy.
But now it fits
just right,
and is already
broken in
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
