These days it gets dark
so gradually, it seems pure dark
will never descend. And now here he is,
damn fool kid, home for a visit,
jacking up threes like he’s never left.
I chase down the rebounds
with fervor and feed him passes
that still carry some snap and bite.
And I watch him as he elevates,
elbow in, eyes on the rim,
just like I told him all these years,
the sun at last relenting,
the neighborhood growing still,
the sweet sound of the ball
slipping through the net
the only soundtrack
to an evening so genuine, so fragile,
so full of unforced heart.
Dan Memmolo is the author of two collections, most recently Fist City, published by Logan House Press and winner of the Holland Prize. His poems have also appeared in various magazines over the years, including Natural Bridge, Atlanta Review, New York Quarterly and Gargoyle. He lives in Providence, Rhode Island.
