On the table was a wicker basket
and in the basket a deflated beach ball.
He used it three summers ago when
things were slower
and time was calm.
It’s near the window but sees
no sun, for it is shaded by the blinds.
It only feels the lamp light, leaving
the plastic sphere cold.
Artificial and not fitting of art.
Deflated and left for dead.
It rests there undisturbed by all
never to be thrown again.