An Evening Poem


When The Streetlights Blink

on faded white paint
the tip of Chuck Taylor’s
gripping cement push
to bend and extend
off finger tips rolling

looking down
the rusted backboard
calls the countdown

red, white, and blue
the ball swirls around
bent rim, it’s bumps
long flattened
seasons past

their departing
about that year
when the ABA
disappeared also

city sun floats down
being early mimicking
Appalachian valleys
sinking behind buildings
lone the dirty streetlamp blinks

a child’s nudge not to be late
most often understood lying
the interpretation taken lately
a game winning long shot

while that globe
in the darkness
searches a net
stuffed, hung on,
old as Methuselah

now two grey strings
remain to play along
waving to crowds
cheering on their feet

the once circular missile
leans a bit to the east
hanging a tightrope act
westerly next, sliding through
the buzzers sounds,…it’s good!


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