poem

 Mr Handball

Dad was happiest down on the court

Surrounded by 4 concrete walls with me

Up in the balcony watching every shot.

I sat with mistresses in the bleachers

Next to half drunk men

Who had lost in the first round

He was the Ohio Open division

State champion

In 1979 

The year before, the Canadian National runner-up.

He keeps his trophies in boxes

Which follow him wherever he goes

One match I pissed a yellow tracing down the back wall 

and they had to call a time out to clean it up.

One tournament I fell in the locker room while he was showering 

and woke up straightjacketed to a rigid backboard

while they stapled my bleeding scalp.

Then he had to move far away,

Too far to watch me when it was my turn to play.

Then the distance got so far 

Neither of us knew where to look.

In the hell I imagine for him

He’s condemned to spend eternity

In a damp

 poorly lit 

YMCA

Picking up wet towels, 

Mopping the sweat soaked hardwood floors.

In the heaven I envision 

He’s up there in the balcony

Watching me dive for killshots

No one else would ever try to get.

Whenever I look up between points

He smiles

And pumps his

Fist