Poem

Had a request for the basketball poem in a previous post:

A good friend of ours at eighty
told us that she was
still surprised by her image
in the mirror each morning
because she felt herself to be,
   in that part of her
   that defined her identity,
the 14-year-old girl
that was her first real self
and that was, in fact, her.

When I look at this yearbook photo
of myself in ninth grade
I see what I always see
in my mind’s eye as myself -
while others see the silliness of years.

Of course there are
those pencil legs of mine
which, nonetheless, have managed
to carry me through the years:
lifting shots, missing some,
but reminding me
that some of the apparent
disadvantages of youth
are unimportant in the long run.

What has remained thirty-five (40) years later
are the shoulders squared to the basket,
elbows in,
shooting hand directly behind the ball,
and releasing at the top of my jump.

Hit or miss.  Me. Giving it my best shot.