Dumb

This is a prose poem. I'm trying something new.

Little boy, socks rolled in asymmetrical insouciance, dribbles his heart down the sidewalk, the pride of his life. Balanced between his fingertips and wet ground, every bounce of that basketball, every prickle of the pimpled leather, is echo sonar, proof of life on this street. Truth is the palpable wet of decaying fall leaves encircling the ball like papier-mâché, TRUTH is the persistence in spite of the taunts from the wobbly, street-gazing children sharking by him in packs like trained wolves. Mom calls to tell him lunch is ready and he can’t hear above the buzz of the clear, white dazzle in his mind. He is striding on tall stork legs, gliding down the slick wood of his dream court, making the winning shot as the ball hits the rim amid the stifled gasps of the crowd, and charms the whole stadium with one delectable swish as it falls, glorious, back to earth. She screams “Dumb!” but he knows better. Into oblivion, he is not ignorant. He stares at the sky, not the horizon. His game is real, in his hands, crisp and full without the necessity of complexity. Truth is in “dumb,” the riptide in a single dull morning, with rain spattering the face of a solitary child.

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

i think this 'new' something you're trying is crisp and beautiful, and 'does' instead of says