Whose palms slapped the ball with finality: THIS IS MINE.
Whose size thirteens repeatedly greeted the court like so: HELLO.
Whose elbows jabbed bellies deep before he launched,
Whose fists pumped him down the miles of court, or through the walls at home,
Whose fists plunged him through the doors at home,
Whose home had plunged from his favor, and whose palms
Slapped the girl with finality: THIS IS MINE. HELLO.
Her face was a clear backboard with a bloody palm print on it.
Her face was a pick-up game, un-refereed, one-on-one
with a professional.
I'm telling you her face was orange leather lined with black scars
bouncing back as hard as it was pushed to the floor: again and again,
until he was the squeak of Windex and old blood collecting on mesh and
she was a losing streak on the hardwood floor: still, again.
But finally: still.
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