That's what the teacher asked for. The kids obliged, and while they wrote their poems, she gave them this one. The kids really liked it, and so did I. I hope you like it too:
Baller
by Abigail E. Myers
by Abigail E. Myers
Saturday morning. Dark. Another basketball
game, another day with conceited
wealthy prep-school stars
walking on the court like they own it, red
uniforms clashing with the blue, the silent angel
point guard rolls out of bed.
He looks towards his unmade bed,
sighing, his limbs sore from basketball
practice last night. He thinks of the angel
who hangs around practices--some say she's conceited
but to him, she's a red
rose behind the chain-link fence, a star
under the fluorescent lights under the stars
in the sky. His Jordans are under the bed,
paired together with the red
shorts and jersey his mother still washes for his basketball
games. He tries not to be conceited,
but his colors haven't faded, the white as white as the robe of an angel,
his Jordans without a scuff. "Ma, you an angel,"
he murmurs, dragging them out. Today he has to be a star,
a tough game, their center a conceited
punk he had words with last week. He puts his bag on his bed
to pack it, the name of his basketball
team printed on it in red.
The girl--she said she'd come to the game and wear red.
In red, she looks like a twisted angel.
He didn't know she liked basketball
(or maybe it's just him--he wishes)--she makes him want to be a star.
He's ready to be free of the bed.
He's ready, maybe a little cocky, maybe a little conceited.
But you have to be conceited,
have to wear the team's red
with pride, with swagger. No time to make that bed--
time to get clean and sharp for that angel,
time to be a star,
a warrior, a knight of basketball.
The sky turns red, yellow finally pale blue with the angel of dawn.
He leaves the bed, the stars of night behind. It's okay to bounce
down that stoop, to be conceited if you got game, if you're all about the basketball.
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