Gutter Ball

My fingers are meant for something else
Sliding into cool holes, the wrong size
The dull chipped black of New Brunswick
Weighing on my upturned praying palm
Stepping in someone else's shoes faster
To the line where my plan begins to fail
A long undone lace creeps beneath my sole
Changing the glide and stride to a stumble
The too big holes escaping my grip midstride
To spin with wild abandon in the free air
A battle scar black smudge on the wood
Leads to the left and into the trenches
The low road home, no spoils of war
Unmoved, my enemies have nothing to fear