Driving down the river road
By Grandpa

Some nights they stay up playing
by the light of Prometheus' gift
which lays in a pile by the road.
Itching,
pulling + biting.

A short naked blonde stood in line for her pizza,
her cropped hair hiding the scars from the world before;
Blue eyes looking at a belly perched unseen
upon invisible hips.
Blind, as he was, on the line;
Such is basketball, or so I thought.
A young man distracted by his neighbor, or
sister, licking ice-cream,
thinking about fishing the Shenandoah.

What's the point of dribbling if Jimmy can't stop drooling?

He missed his shot.
The ball falls dead on the moist court scattering
Ten legs to fall on the dirty orb and to
begin again.

Foul!   In yo' face!   God Damn!
- s o o r r r y.

I never see the end of their game.
I just keep driving down the same river road littered with flood debris,
cans, and hoops screwed to randomly nailed plywood boards.
Funny how basketball is everywhere
(ah, life!)
It may not be everywhere, yet all along this lost river road
We see fallen trees and burned out homes
String after string of colored lights and mobile homes.
Across from the homes are cars settling on the banks of the old, shallow and slow river.
People.
Yes, people.
Sitting in that same mud with towels and inner tubes,
pale or tanned or brown.
Six young men with the standard mustache lean
on their cars, or car.
The men wear shorts and black tee-shirts.
Women base their outfits with
one
tank-
top.
Everything else is improv.

Old people, horses, babies,
daughters and boyfriends.
Sometimes, in the evenings, I can smell burgers.
I try to love these people,
After all, they are America, right?
Stubborn, happy, workers enjoying the tranquility of the river
without regard for the mud or insects.
The trees hide them from the sun.
The road hides them from the world.
I try to love these people but I keep
driving.
My home is not on this road, not that I have a home.
Regardless, I drive.

I always see them
The Basketballers.
One simple kid staring from the foul line
with dreams of that girl,
or that shot.
Or maybe half of them are starting a fire.
Maybe half of them are reading his mind.
Stacks of wood
built up for years on the road and never out of stock.
When the sun goes down the girl goes away
to shower,
and they hope,
to grow.