He picks up the shiny ball,
Withered fingers sliding into well-worn holes.
Heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe --
Three careful paces to a line only he sees.
His posture is erect, proud, precise:
A reminder of the cap on the table, emblazoned
“United States Air Force.”
Old eyes take in the lane,
White warriors waiting for war.
With the precision of a tactical general.
He takes aim, darts forward, releases his missile;
It flies, straight and true, meets its mark:
Strike, fourth in a row,
Battle won, but war not done.
Every Saturday for eighteen years
He fights alone.