poem post #7

basketball hands

she says
cradling them within her own
like relics
plucked from the dirt
she turns them over a time or two
finds the lines
and reads the story
the snowbird stick-backs from the paint
the power moves
and rebounds
the quick snap of the outlet pass

ancient history, I say back

but then
the kiss
a burning in the knuckles and fingertips
the slow, thin flame of shooter’s touch
rekindled
and gasping for air


::


© 2009, Curt Alderson. All rights reserved in accordance with the Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works.