You’re Yonkers lonely:
a pile of spent Sundays,
why-am-I-heres and pull-
ing-up-drives, you know,
just to turn around. When’s
the last time you felt new?
No spirit waves your
banner in the dark; no
name echoes in your
skull like a bead in a tin
cup. Maybe you need
a rousing hobby like
knitting, beatboxing or
oversharing. Hey, who
knows what song could
stand in for actual heart-
ache? Not one, if you
don’t learn the mandolin.
Don’t sweat it, buddy.
I’m just a more perceptive
version of you. I might
be speaking like a weird old
sky, but listen: take your
homelessness to modern
Crete. Drift. Taste literal
honey. A bad problem
to have isn’t lostness.
Mysterious voice over.
For a while, now. Go.
My lungs run up and down the driveway
doing layups against gravity and the ghost
of John Havlicek. I score too many times to
count, but if you need to know, it’s thirteen
to sixteen to twelve. Winning isn’t the only
thing, but yeah, I do that. Three teams are
playing at once because this is frontyard
basketball, son. Rules are rules, whatever you
think those are. My team’s wearing hangglider
pants and angelic wings (skyblue), and we
call ourselves the October Novembers. Like
Havlicek’s squad, the Wind, and my shadow’s
team, the Everywhere-I-Don’t-Knows, we don’t
hail from any place in particular: we just wear
the stripes as they fall. Man, the sun’s about
to head home, away from mine. With six
seconds left, I pass the ball to a baseline angel…
five seconds …who soars past thirtyfive defen-
ders… four …a pet deer… three …and a
towelboy, literally a boy made of towels…
two …and the ball arcs through the cold air,
like a briefly held infinity, a spun world in golden
light… one …and slips through the net like
nothing, almost nothing at all. It’s halftime.
I slap limbs with my center, the tallest tree.