Just guys swapping sweat,
we trade names and hoops to fend
off summer’s last breath—
it’s me, Rick, and Ken
scraping for space and the holy
grail, twenty-one.
Rick loops around till he
sees a gap he can smoke through
audaciously,
and feathered in for two
that’s nineteen to my twelve, Ken’s six,
so we know
his next shot’s a brick—
can’t win from the stripe—and as I
rebound and kick
out I hear some quasi-
praise or curse in Ken’s rasped
shout of “Bird has it”
—nothing new since last
week’s cry of Bob Pettit
as I shoveled a pass
to a kid in Bucks’ threads—
but now Rick puts up my
miss to end it—Shit,
I breathe out at pride
trounced—to think there’s always a curse
to mark divides—
and shaking off scars
we strap helmets on mopped
brows to part ways, but first
I see Rick stop,
fish out a joint, and hear him
ask Ken if I’m a cop.
(2008)
