useless art

Dad places a cigarette butt
on the driveway,
then hands me the ball.

The hoop still shivers
from my last shot,
aimed at the craggy nook

between rusting backboard
and rigid hoop hinge.
Dad takes out a fresh pack

of smokes, bangs it twice,
unfurls the flimsy wrapper,
and tosses it to the wind, ignoring

its skittish path across
the driveway cracked
with fitful dandelion tufts.

“Right there,” he says, pointing
at the old butt while patting
his letterman jacket down for a light,

then crossing his arms, unlit
cigarette tucked between his lips,
waiting. This is a history lesson,

the metallic doom of every shot
missed repeating in my head
as I try to focus on the hoop.

But instead, I think about that kid
in the driveway
of that house we drove by

taking aim at his garage
with no hoop, no backboard
no lines, no refs -

just a few dribbles,
a bend at the knees,
and a flick of the wrist.

Nothing but net every time.

Dad coughs, then coughs more,
doubling over, and slaps
the asphalt with tarred spit.

“Shoot the ball,” he barks,
the cigarette needling the air
as he looks again for a light.

He finds his lighter. I watch him
gently cup the flame
as he brings it to his lips,

and, after a deep breath, he exhales.
A lick of smoke gracefully spirals
into the air, and disappears.

He sees me watching him,
and merely stares back.
Ash falls to the ground.

I toe the butt,
spin the ball in the air,
bend at the knees

dribble once, twice,
look up at the rim
aim, close my eyes,

and shoot.