poem

 Clutch

After school I used to play a game

Where I had to make ten free throws

In a row or else I’d be shot on the spot

By some black hooded assassin.

The game mutated over the years.

Just a few weeks ago I was hoisting 

A 25 footer knowing that if I missed

Not only myself but everyone I loved

Would be summarily dispatched.

I like to know that everything rides

On me. Not the usual three-two-one,

Beat the buzzer, win or go home 

Sort of thing most kids do.

It had to be life or death.

Everything had to hinge

On the results of a single action.

I wish I could say I was consistently

A hero.  That ice water surged in my veins,

That my heart rate never rose above seventy,

That I was always clutch, rising with an

Effortless flick of the wrist.

But the reality is I had already been

Dead to myself ten times over

Before the ball finally nestled through

The nylon cords of the net.

12/26/21