The basketball you walk around the court <br />Produces a hard, stinging, clean report. <br />You pause and crouch and, after feinting, swoop <br />Around a ghost defender to the hoop <br />And rise and lay the ball in off the board. <br />Solitude, plainly, is its own reward. <br /> <br />The game that you've conceived engrosses you. <br />The ball rolls off; you chase it down, renew <br />The dribble to the level of your waist. <br />Insuring that a sneaker's tightly laced, <br />You kneel—then, up again, weave easily <br />Through obstacles that you alone can see. <br /> <br />And so I drop the hands I'd just now cupped <br />To call you home. Why should I interrupt? <br />Can I be sure that dinner's ready yet? <br />A jumpshot settles, snapping, through the net; <br />The backboard's stanchion keeps the ball in play, <br />Returning it to you on the ricochet.<br /><br />Timothy Steele<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/practice/
