With the last remaining light that the evening had offered up,
seven boys formed a familiar circle passing the ball back n’ forth.
With only plastic bags tied tightly together, they tried to see how long they could keep it off the ground,
I counted up to thirteen.
They juggled next to a trash fire to steal a little more light,
and as the smoke encircled the boys like a stadium,
it looked as though it was protecting them from the rest of the world, for just a moment.
From where I was standing, I could see that three of them were wearing shoes,
two were sportin’ Roma’s. One was missing laces.
The other had an old pair of adidas that was barely recognizable,
as the white leather & three stripes stitched firmly on the outsides (a shoe I am all too familiar with) were stained in mud,
while three others juggled in sandels two sizes too large and were holding on to their lives with just a toe strap.
Then there was the boy I couldn’t take my eyes from.
He had nothing but his bare feet to work with,
but he hit the ball clean,
and with each touch his smile grew a bit wider.
Watching him control its every movement the way a conductor does a symphony,
I couldn’t help but think this was how the game is suppose to be played...
With friends in bare feet,
playing against emerging city lights competing for the stars positions,
trying to convince the sun to set a bit later.
I gave him a head–nod and walked away while he
put on a show to anyone willing to watch,
using nothing but plastic bags and some rope.
