Sitting on the sidelines of this basketball court
caged within a fence, staring at the backboards,
the rims, summer sun filtering through whenever
a breeze seizes the surrounding trees, shakes
their leaves while I stretch my hamstrings, calves,
trying not to think about filling the wing, racing
down court, expecting a pass to find me mid stride
for an easy layup or maybe timing my leap to tap
in a missed shot and concentrate on my doctor’s
order to start getting in better shape instead.
I always hated any exercise that didn’t involve
a ball, someone keeping score, and I stopped
playing ten years ago when kidney disease started
swelling my calves. He says go back, do whatever
you enjoy. I start by walking around the court once,
twice, then easing into a trot, immediately realizing
the spring in my step had sprung a leak, all the air,
lightness, that was once mine, all sucked out, long
gone, and each leg feels like a sack of rotting meat.
When my sneakers pound the ground with a thud
every nearby insect startles into motion. I alternate,
one walk, one trot. I am tempted to force a faster
pace, but I can feel my left calf grabbing and after
5 sets I stop to rest, sweating through my t shirt,
breathing fast and hard, stretching some more,
rubbing the calf loose, trying to keep ghosts away:
cross overs/pump fakes/hanging in the air/double
clutching/fadeaway bank shots. Instead, I’m picturing
the basketball buried at the bottom of my closet,
one of those pins I hopefully can find in my kitchen
junk drawer to resuscitate the ball at the nearest gas
station and carry it with me, dribble it from one end
of the court at half speed to the opposite basket,
leave my feet like it’s the first time, let the ball touch
the backboard with the softest, sweetest kiss I ever
gave my best ex-girlfriends Julia/Erica/Nancy/Suzanne,
watch the ball nest in the net for that sacred second
or two as I pull myself up, begin another set of laps.
