A no-look, left-handed pass
Cousey-like
in transition
uphill, in the lane
just out of reach
of my teammate trailing
out of bounds
skipping over junipers
under a pear tree
into the Hussein's yard
(an Iranian family, Shah-era)
the side yard where
one evening in adolescence masturbation was discovered
for the fifth or sixth time
employing a jar of noxema
a sister exiting the shower
in her bathrobe
to see the fellas in the late-night
pick-up game
inadvertently startled
hungering for a big mac
happy meal
picnicking courtside
in the cool, evening Summer grass
as an airliner with the President aboard
streams low in the sky
jet fuel trailing in the last pink dusk and satellite
stations shift positions
to accommodate the subtle
shuttle transformation
and disconnection
amidst the beaming stars
in space, and the cordial questions
of where one grew up:
this fella from South Dakota
my sister impressed --
she did undergrad at Duluth --
another from Michigan though
I had quite all along thought New York
another from Texas, one from Alabama:
a good, clean game, almost chivalrous.

Life was so much simpler and exciting
in youth, and yet chaos ruled
as it does now.
Still.
You think you're invisible
but you're really not.