They are, of course, almost always
Less than we imagine them to be,
Their arms and legs, immense, powerful
As one of them, say named Mickey,
Would uncoil – hips and shoulders rotating –
Wrists whipping wood around like
Perhaps a god would do
If he or she played ball;
And with the ball ascending
Rocket-like we would crazily cheer.
He ran, caught, and hit better than,
Well, better than almost anyone ever,
Yet this was for a time the extent
Of what he was able to do –
Until he realized at last his destiny:
To give witness to the full life
He didn’t live, to what he left behind.