the basketball uniform
in the back of the closet
once a good friend
now a reminder of departed youth
soiled, spotted with blood, still smells of salt
all I have left
along with fading memories.
one summer in the autumn of my youth
I put on my friend the uniform
which still fits the contours of my body
and find a deserted gym
so no one can witness my struggle.
in a zen moment
a calm flow takes over
I am lost in time and space
the basketball gently kisses the deserted gym floor
I lift the ball toward the heavens and shoot
“Whoosh”
nothing but net
fake left – go right
“Whoosh”
lost in the moment
I am home.