Jeff Teague could hardly contain the poeticism bursting from within him. Hastily entering his apartment, he didn’t even bother to turn on the lights before walking briskly to his desk. Once there, he lit the two candles which rested upon the flat wood surface, granting him just enough illumination to begin the task at hand. Grabbing a blank sheet of stationery from the pile, and choosing his favorite fountain pen from among his large selection of them, he was writing his words not even a minute after walking through the front door.
“In nature you might abound with beauty
Desired and coveted in the field of botany
But the flower with which you share your name
If alive, would see you and feel only shame
A rose in the garden is a sweet surprise
But a Rose on the team causes its demise
Unlike the flower of your namesake
Your existence is one grand mistake
So finished you were after your injuries
But in the game, you do as you please
A renaissance, perhaps, of historical import
A legacy rewritten every trip up the court
As I lay, forgotten, on the wayside
Outplayed by an old man, so my pride
Is diminished with each passing day
Grant me this favor, and just go away
A rose by its thorns is quite protected
And this reborn Rose is quite detested
Yet shielded from harm by a false legacy
And the league’s most undeserved MVP
Will nobody remember Teague and his role
The minutes stolen, was that the goal
To replace his production? If so,
Perhaps it is finally time for him to go.”
Jeff re-read the words with sadness. A heavy sigh escaped him. At the top of the page, he titled the poem, “The Rose.” Then, overcome by weariness, he crossed his arms on the desk and rested his head on them to fall into a somber slumber.