Three friends on my giddy ride home from practice.

Seven cars in my driveway and twelve relatives they belong to.

Twenty four crossed arms, twelve tear-stained faces.

Two rivers taken residence on my Mother’s young face.

 

I don’t play basketball much anymore.

–

It was chilly that September night.

Dark and dusty on the basement floor.

And me, in an egg shaped chair, silver controller in hand,

clutching.

Twelve Mormons, twelve antagonists, one floor up.

I can hear the way they murmur “Does he need?”

He need not. Not he need. Need not he.

–

What will I tell my brother? My sister?

Camp stove. Closed window. Mountain asylum.

They can’t know, fragile as they are,

just recently eight and not yet five.

My brother won’t be baptized.

My sister won’t remember.

–

Four hours, three o’clock, two aunts:
“Are you okay?”

No—yes—maybe—probably—will be—sure.

“What are you playing?”

This? This is my friend. This is my compatriot.

This is my father. This is my still-beating heart.

“Won’t you come upstairs?”

You see this black cord sewn into these silver guts?

This is my umbilical cord.

You see that timer? That beautiful, elegant sideways-eight?

I’m here forever.

You see the way I duck and dodge?

One thought:

“O, I am fortune’s fool.”