after Jean-Michel Basquiat
We are all famous Sunday mornings at the Y.
That magnificent & rattled-rim space of big·timing
Sundays. Gym bag hung over the shoulder
of a matching sweatshirt Sundays. Touch one toe
then the other if you can kind of days. Ball shoes
crisp in the bag & What up, team? we say.
For real, on Sundays, we're sweating in quintuplicate
like a grinning team portrait. Knees swollen as roundly
as the composite basketball we play with. & sometimes,
the shoe-string glance from the trainer up front, the
straight up & down of would-be ballers orbiting the ball
court like paparazzi & handshake laughs at bad passes
have to be adequate when your jumper is so far off
somebody should staple flyers to telephone poles for it.