Old Glory

There was a boy once. Or there had been. A boy with an arm. A good arm. They said so anyway. In those days. He could throw the ball and the ball would go and the others would stand there. Foolish. Looking. The ball gone. The arm still there. For a while. Now a bar. A road. A door opening. One man leaving as another enters. They meet. Or nearly. They go back in. Sit. Drink. What else. The man speaks of the days. The days when the arm was young. When the ball went where it was told. When the eyes followed. Now the eyes elsewhere. Now the arm hangs. The days. They go. Not all at once. A little at a time. In the blink. In the glass. In the face of a girl up the block who could turn all the boys’ heads. Now a woman. Now children asleep upstairs. A husband gone. I guess it’s two years gone by now. She laughs when she would cry. He listens. He remembers. They remember remembering. This is what remains. The old times. The old times in the mouth. A taste of them. Not unpleasant. Not quite. And the well. Lower the bucket. Draw up the dark. Drink. Drink until full. Until the body says enough. But the body says nothing. It takes what is given. It keeps going. It will be old. It will sit. It will speak. It will tell the same story again. The boy with the arm. Made you look like a fool. The girl with the eyes. The ball in flight. The ball already gone. It passes without sound. Or with a sound too familiar to hear. One day you are there. The next you are telling someone you were there. The difference is small. Almost nothing. A little less light. A little more breath required. The same words. The same glass. The same street outside. What was it. Glory. They called it glory.