How to Choose the Next City
Stuck out in the court’s
fringes again, follow-
through fingers hitched
below my bottom rib
like a name buckle
made out of knuckles.
A borrowed ball parked
in my elbow crook
& Indy—fractured
backdrop of 2, maybe 3
taller buildings—
right over the fist of trees where
some of the ballers
smoked between runs.
My other hand—wrapped
around the austere
questions of cities
we could move to if only
I could grow & get
my jumper right:
Cincinnati, Brooklyn,
nearly Detroit. Away
from Indiana nearsightedness,
away from hooping
in school shoes
& being picked the one
after last. Always next,
always stuck on the crest
of the court while
the real ballers dribbled
& drove through the relentless
humidity, jawed about mamas
& their respective fatness,
got tangled in sweaty
pageantry—as glimmering
& slick as the mall jewelry
they borrowed to shine
for the girls pretending
not to watch. A little city
of backspun gallantry
& I was too broke
to get a spot in it.
