Loser

Loser

In the grey of a rain‑slicked afternoon,
he sits on the park bench, a crumpled ticket
in his palm—today’s defeat, yesterday’s hope.

The world rushes past in double‑decker buses,
their horns a muted chorus of “better luck next time”,
while he counts the cracks in the pavement,
each one a tally of near‑misses and false starts.

He wears the label like an ill‑fitting coat,
threads loose at the seams, yet it keeps him warm
against the chill of indifferent applause.

But look closer: in the quiet between the jeers,
a spark flickers—stubborn as a dandelion
pushing through concrete, refusing to be mown.

For a loser is not merely one who loses,
but one who learns the weight of every loss,
and still, with a wry smile, steps back onto the field,
ready to play the game again,
this time with the wisdom of scars
and the quiet courage of someone
who knows that sometimes,
the bravest thing you can be
is simply still standing.