Poem

Been there

A ball will bounce, but less and less

in this winter cold. It thumps

like cord-wood on the shed plank floor.

But for its sustained thuds,

I would not imagine it a basketball.

But there you are in hood and parka

dribbling it between your boots;

an aura of frost about the blue white bulb

overhead. Like mine were,

your hands have become lobster claws –

a raw red rash shouting from

your knuckles, wrists, and fingertips

which I remember too as nearly painless

for all their apparent rage.

And later, outside the barn, you are

mumble-shouting to yourself in play-by-play

as you surge through the snow-pack

shooting hoops in the blue shadow of February

before the call to supper.

You come in puffing, cheeks and chin

chafed with cold, tumbling out

“did you see me” and the score;

shucking your coat and boots,

then sitting down to soup and biscuits

and the warm enthusiasm of your fans.

February 2008