Sandlot Basketball

My eye is fine: halfway through they're double-teaming me.

But my legs make that easy. We stand in a clump of three, like a

decaying marriage, and I shoot over them. Swish. My sweat

clings to itself and dries, lamination.

Dribbling in the dust, coughing like a dying boat, each knee

the color of a boiling lobster, I hate my decadent grace. Body,

come back; all is forgiven.

And the flecked body, holder of postures and grudges, rattles

uneasily. It has always wanted a life of its own and here I am

again, thick as a dead tongue, asking it to join me.