Faint Bounce

Dusk falls, a purple stain

across the window pane.

The air, it carries far,

past streetlights, past the first cold star.

A sound begins, a gentle beat,

from unseen court, or dusty street.

Thud. Thud-thud. A rhythmic grace.

Someone playing, in some place.

The ball, it rises, falls, then flies.

A simple game beneath vast skies.

It drifts in, a hollow drone,

a comfort in being all alone.

I sit and watch the light grow thin,

and let that distant sound seep in,

a soft, repeated, quiet plea,

for something that won't come to me.