With a bucket of outdoor white paint in my grip,
	I stand by the graying door,
Thinking that, now,
The hoop should come down,
	Since it seldom gets used anymore.

But the round, dirty marks that surround the old net
	Make me think of past contests held here,
By this door that's been scarred
Near the back of the yard,
	...And I pause, as a vision comes clear.

I hear, now, the slap of a ball on the road,
	And the jangle it makes on the rim,
And the whish of the ball,
Through the net when it falls,
	The team's shouts when they see it go in.

I see the kids' breath in the cold winter air,
	And their coats on the ground in a stack,
While past happy cheeks,
Sweat drops to their feet...
	Then, of a sudden, I'm back.

Most of the team has left for new courts,
	And I stand alone here on mine,
Remembering awhile,
With both tears and a smile,
	Of a precious, and God-given, time.

I look at the marks on my old door once more,
	And begin putting paint tools away.
The neighbors, I guess,
Will talk, nonetheless,
	I can't paint that door.  Not today.