One eye on the ball

One eye on the ball,

he dribbles it to the west side of the court
tries to pass it off to Malcolm but drops it,
ball bounces to the fence,
hits the chink wire and tire
rubber bits and stops,
finding its sanctum in the grisly
weed grass.

A slick black cruiser
passes by
with a whir and a spin
of intoxicant: gasoline and
strawberry filth.
His frontal lobe throbs
where the bullet bit.
He falls and hears
the fluid splash against his
insides where some area of matter
erupts. A chain reaction.
His brain bounces around in
the heavy shell,
like ball to ground
tap, tap, swoosh.
all air all net,
instead it hits the sharp edges of metal wire,
goes through the uncontained
hole in the fence,
out into the busy street.
A balloon deflates into silly putty.
He loses a friend.

But all he sees is the orange orb
of tiny intricacies
how it feels against his warm palm.
The lines no one else can see
are the veins vital
to human existence.
This ball is made up of diesel fuel,
running like an engine down
the rough gray court, the brain
drain.

From bird’s eye view
the court appears like a brain too
the many cracks in the cement
flowing together--
a half sphere
but the other side is empty. He is
alone at night and likes it that way;
gives him time to think
time to realign his thoughts,
like the tires of his mother’s motor.

Black cruiser basketball net
missing the free throws
on his court in his streets

who owns this city anyway?

He reflects on the past swelling
of the soft tissue,
cortex still not up to par,
and continues the dribbling:
tap, tap, chink.
tap, tap, chink.