96-97

Rogers steps to the line,
glances down, checks his toes,
the ivory of the shoe rubber
comforting against the white glaring back.
"No silly mistakes," he tells himself,
one second to go.

The ref tosses him the ball.

He closes his eyes,
pictures the six men standing along the lane,
a mixed bag of coffee beans, light to dark roast,
except Kulik, the Ukrainian,
the only white man on the floor,
possibly the whitest one in the whole arena,
six-eight, gaunt, eyes barracuda gray,
networks of veins protruding on limbs bred hairless.

Rogers raises his lids, focuses forward, up,
lifts the ball, left hand at side, right underneath,
sweaty palms and fingers seeking traction.
Compressed air, the game's fickle inmate of physics,
shoots an ounce of power into his hands,
down his arms, across his chest.

He falls still, eyes locked on rim,
bends his knees, waits for their signal.
It's always the knees. They have to communicate,
coordinate the whole, load the spring.

One...two...three...

Ooomph!

His hands wilt, arms drop.

The ball arcs high, crests, turns down,
hits the backboard, bounces forward.
It snags the front of the rim,
pulls to the left, hugging the metal, rises,
rolls to the backboard, and stops,
dallying between valor and villain.

Rogers purses his lips, blows, lightly,
the way he does in his wife's ear
to nudge her to forgiveness.

The ball waivers, drifts left, falls,
a sigh shy of kind.