ROUGH TRADE

ROUGH TRADE

It's a small consolation, it's such a rough trade,
Not the great stuff of which heroes are made,
Back room discoveries, pool table stumbles,
Foul balls on an open court, unnecessary fumbles.

It's quite unredeeming to live with inadequacy,
To throw yourself humbly upon the court's mercies.
To dance a drunken sailor on the borderline of madness,
Haunting dyskinesias mistaken in the sadness.
And the devastating memories of what was before the fall,
Small wonder that a lesser man would rush to end it all.

It is a rough trade we practice and a rough trade we ply,
It is win or it is lose, alas, there is no try.
There is no real justice, there is no real ease,
When the meds are as cursed as the disease.
From humble beginnings I arose and I shone,
Shot out from the cannon, I blazed all alone.
But I burned both ends of my elegant fuse.
The brain synapses staged a strike,
All got up and took a hike,
And left me with a gambler's blues.

Here in the corner I sit and I ponder,
What awaits in the wild blue yonder.
Here I sit in the park beneath a cool oak's shade,
Passing judgment on punishing choices I've made.
A work horse until I was 38, always in hot pursuit,
Of professional goals that swallowed me whole,
Ate away at my misspent youth.

It's a small consolation, it's such a thick bleed,
To one so not used to being in need.
To one so accustomed to living life without a hand,
To be banished to a cipher in this the chosen land.
Always thought I was too young to be,
Choosing Medicare Part B.
Thought that mighty Fortune's eyes
Would always smile upon me.

It's a bitter dispensation, it's such a crude end,
Time came and broke me when I just wouldn't bend.
Leaving me just a tad bitter, a man without a choice,
A deficit of dopamine, the rasping stutter of a voice.

Each new day I greet the pall, the indignity of another fall.
Yet with a strange and dim refrain of gratitude for what remains.
It is small consolation, it's such a rough trade,
Not such great stuff, but a legend that fades. 
Back room discoveries, terrible tumbles,
Foul balls on open court, an empire that crumbles.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED