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 warm nook

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

of smokes, unfurls the thin
cellophane wrapper,
tosses it to the wind, ignores

its skittish path across
the driveway cracks
and fitful tufts of dandelion.

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

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

I should think about slow old
George Mikan
in earthbound Chuck Taylors,

and Michael Jordan in full flight,
tongue wagging,
body forever fluid in stasis,

Hot Plate, Moochie, Big Dog,
Shaq, Bron-Bron,
the Round Mound of the Rebound,

peach baskets, wire fences,
set shots, shot clocks,
double dribble, travel,

carry, palm, crossover,
behind the back, through
the legs, all ball, all ball.

Instead, I remember 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,
bend at the knees,
and flick 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,
so I toe the butt,
spin the ball in the air, then

dribble once, twice, stop,
squat down, look up,
raise the ball, cock my wrist,

and close my eyes.