A ball, sat on the porch. The red latex it was comprised of was well worn. The raised hatches that criss-crossed its cracked surface were all but rubbed smooth, and missing a criss here or a cross there. The underside was a tapestry of the past, the last of its color sequestered from a thieving sun. In its early days it had been the object of many a game, and took pleasure in the joy it created, found pride in the cheers of the children. Now, the concrete that lay in its shadow was a desert for the microbes, gone without rain for many moons.
