For Sylvia Plath

I crane my neck and,
awkwardly I gawk at this heap
of shiny, plastic accomplishments.


I squint to read little etched
epitaphs -- inscriptions caked with
dust; every letter, the space
between tiles, stuffed with grout.


Illegible from such a distance, I
advance and run my finger along the
antiquated verbage -- kid pitch 2001,
defensive player of the year, 2009,
even that archaic creative writing plaque.
I touch the brittle pieces with my 
old, bony hands and hear the whispers
of yesterday and slowly I slip
back in time --
"That kind sure has potential--"
"Let's just hope he doesn't screw it up."
"It's a full scholarship for him; you're 
set for life!"


And then I'm back, as if I were Smeagol,
sitting atop my mound of mire, mouthing
away about some old ring I once had,
while behind me success rots away
in a mass grave.


ED