Basketball

they cover themselves, wrists and foreheads,
with crayola colored blue and black sweat bands that
will eventually serve no purpose as they
send forcefully the dotted sphere back and
forth
around the window shaped court, and
watch it bounce rhythmically like a piece of orange, rubber fruit
into the corners.
They wipe earned perspiration from
creased and glossy brows kissed by late afternoon
sun that stains their skin, blemished
by an athlete’s ambition, and they
talk about former games and disappointed scores
in the past month, that drive
them to the blacktop to be better than that, different
from the empty futures of yesterday’s
heros who failed them, black and white, and they strive for when
wild and enraged fans scream their names instead, from metal, rocking
bleachers and living room sofas, and
they only engage in conversation when someone isn’t making a clear shot
or aiming for concentration, aiming
for above the red rim.
Running-worn tennis shoes glide like
new skate blades on ice, as
quickened stops and swift turns mark the steaming, scorched
pavement made for sport and made
for the savage victory shouts and wins
planned ahead of time.
Damp and uncomfortable T-shirts are discarded as burdens
with sweat-stained advertisements, pictures
of faces, those once heroes, and bold words
that drive them to further ability, words like
“be the best you can be”, and swishes of
“just do it”, on their backs, and some wonder why they can’t...
And so the game is continued at fault for tied rounds
and equal shots, permitting weather and quiet onlookers who share
the dream
of living for the sake of the sport.