Bob Rogers




The Games are Over for The Day

I find myself a guest,
where daily as a child,
during summer’s long heat, I peeped in.
A small knothole in the wooden fence
my vantage point.
I saw the affluent limbs of young men and women
chase the scudding ball across the court.
I watched those loose limbs bronze,
I watched breasts held taut against cotton.
I laughed and
fed on their energy,
snaking through me like fire.
Seeing the future through this hole
My expectation grew wild in the sun.

Here in the clubhouse
returning after years;
not the colossus I expected to be
from the other side of the fence;
I find it strangely cold
as though the sun has gone in
and the games are over for the day.
I yearn to be small,
open-eyed, glued to that knothole
my senses full, creosote burning
in my nostrils,
the future before me.




Bob Rogers has published poems in  Poetry Review, Bananas, Jo Soap’s Canoe, Tuba, Magma and Grand Piano in the 80s and early 90s. Returning to poetry after a break to complete academic work. He has poems recently in Coffee House, The Journal, Nightingale, Neon Highway, The Ugly Tree, Sentinel, Aesthetica, Monkey Kettle, Envoi,  Whiteleaf Review, Poetry Monthly, Nth Position and Ariadne’s Thread. A pamphlet of poems was published Dodman Press in 1985.  He has also published a number of educational books on creative writing.

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