Here is a proof that if you omit the verse, poetry ceases to exist. Or even better, everything is poetry already.
I always find it funny when people say they don’t like poetry. What’s the matter, all that unused blank space bothering you? Yesterday I posted a poem on my other blog (which will soon become my main blog once this one is full), and here it is broken down into prose. All it took was the removal of the white.
For all who might have read it vertically already and prefer it that way, below are some more photos of my basketball lawn. You know that I love the sport, you’ve seen the hoop and now I’ve found a ball too. Maybe Santa brings me a real one.
Today I’m playing basketball again. Or rather I keep throwing the battered soccer ball, left behind by two kids of the family who moved out and on, to the net-less hoop they had set up the pine tree while the dog looks on perplexed. Every sixth attempt goes in, or so. It’s been a while. Bestia is the only witness to this phenomenon. Tall slim pine trees are looking down on me. Overweight middle-aged woman trying to score.
Bestia’s Buddy moved out with the family. He left a bone in the grass for his friend. Bestia found it and wouldn’t budge, his teeth clenched around it. His eyes were wild and the message was clear: “AS IF you want it for yourself. You’d throw it away!” But that was before I found the ball and the old wish stirred at every basket made.
It was pre-kissing pre-smoking pre-everything. I played with the boys after school, a rare girl. It might be because the ball was mine. Of course, that was it! And I’ve thought all this time he liked me. Yet it was nothing sweeter than scoring a 3-pointer that wasn’t invented yet over his defending body. I know, he was not guarding me as he would another boy. I wonder how much longer girls will be counting on it. Still there was something in his eyes when my ball went in and it was his fault.
And it went in a lot. In a way it went in even before it left my hands. I instilled it with the mission and let it fly. Now I see them make a shot and turn their backs to the basket with a hand behind the ear waiting for the ball to pop in. It was like that.
And now there are pine trees and grass beneath my feet and a ball that doesn’t bounce and no one to pass it to but the dog. I stop the count at 7:0. Tomorrow I’ll go for 10. I take the coat and scarf that I’ve left on the ground, I take the dog and we walk home.