Muscles remember.

Wrists recall.

Eyes adjust.

Grips change.

Feet move.

Even murmurs from spectators

Come home to you.

Then: breath quickly shortens.

Pains appear in new places

Visions of movements fall short.

Action replays hit walls.

The final over welcomed.

Then: warm cans to rejoice.

We kissed without ambiguity, unqualified;

it was coming home for other muscles’ memories.

To play cricket. To be in love.

Knowing the meaning of winning

While expecting only a loss,

Until what is left is pleasure, pure

And because in the morning, so familiar,

the aching and the strain,

you shout against the slowing.

Once you ran all day and made love all night.

Life was the game.

But for one day again lose it all in the playing:

What else is middle age for?