Yesterday's Champion

Rust blooms where once bright paint did gleam,
A soap box ghost, lost in a metal dream.
Wheels askew, a tilted, tin frame,
No cheering crowds now whisper out its name.

Patina etched, by sun and biting rain,
A faded number, whispering old pain.
Of gravity's rush, and youthful, wild delight,
Now just a shadow, in the fading light.