Loss
On the bus, all so sweaty,
Fillled with hate, and meaningless pity.
Head down, you know you lost,
A single game you feel you tossed.
The whole ride home, all so quiet,
All in thought of the early riot.
Get back home and hit the shower,
Take so long it felt an hour.
Hold your head high, you did your best,
Now to bed for a joyful rest.
Copyright © John Toyne | Year Posted 2009
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