basketball season is over
by Adam | Monday 18 May 2009
No more with the twisting
hoops and rivulets of 1994/95,
repeats of binary refrain:
clutch city and the dream
shake, the return of the
glide and the kiss
of death.
It's on to what? Baseball
or summer knolls, concrete piers
to race down, gaze out on the Hudson
and that verdure,
God-made gaffers
lifting the watertops.
I look in myself for the worst
devolution: my tongue and its
cues to spout on, my knees collapse,
my mind gets soft like
batter (up).
I'm paring down these chubby
stanzas, line by line until they
become something useful like
an exigency.
Or perhaps a row in the diadems of
my secret life, all of which suggest
a pledge to insincerity.
Arouse the panic in me or tether my feet
in the pageantry of the underwhelmed.
Or find me a new hobby.