With harsh and stern ferocity, the hot West Texas sun beats down upon my strong and ironed rim with mean consistent constancy

The specters of the boys who played their pickup games are floating in my memories, their names I cannot see, their faces now a passing blur

The sounds of bouncing basketballs are echoing their mournful notes across the vast expanse of barren yard, where children played when times were young and family came to live alive

My glory days have passed me by and all I have are memories of boys and games that once were played across the yard and underneath the hot West Texas sun