Two On Two
A school yard in late November,The school long gone now
Except for the replay of blacktop
Shining and slick with cold rain,
Shimmering like Boston Garden parquet,
Petit and Cousy, Robertson and Russell,
Four boys scuffling in cold plumes
Of white breath and black PF Flyers
In a half-court basketball game . . .
The one good glad memory framed
Forever by weathered yellow lines
That bounded our world that year.
The ball a cold rock in my hands
And Jerry faking and spinning,
Running to the basket and my pass
Over Tim's leaping outstretched hands
A perfect arc and angle of the only
Geometry I would ever understand,
Bob going with the fake and slipping
And Jerry in one fluid graceful motion
Catching the ball and rising up
In the rain turning to sleet,
The ball spinning from his fingers
Against the metal backboard
Clanging like a broken bell,
Bouncing once, twice on the rim
And trailing the play I am looking up
And hanging there in the stinging air,
Still reaching to tip in the rebound.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 571 times
Written on 2011-01-10 at 15:17
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