(In honor of March Madness, one of my older poems has been resurrected)



He practices dribbling that ball

until his hands feel numb

the tiny rubber nubs of its surface

leaving a pattern of bruises; small

purple blue freckles that eventually

fade to yellow.

His jump shot isn’t perfect; it’s

a miscalculation, the geometry of

his body not quite where it should

be, and so the ball only

caresses the net some of the time.

He likes the thud of the ball

against the pavement,

it makes the world sound hollow,

it reminds him of an inside-out


He puts up with each miss, each

time the ball rolls away, for the anticipation

of that one perfect moment

when it hits its target; that

sweet swish of nothing but net.



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2 responses to “Slam

  1. inside-out heartbeat. I like that!

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