Original Poems 2024

Confrontation

I fell asleep reading poetry on a reviving
summer day. The poet was before me,
in an indoor basketball court in the inner

city. He stood resolute like granite
and his sides were chipped to shale.
There was no impact he didn't own,
no misery he tried to hide.

My scorned thoughts brought him forward,
my critiques his calling card. With the temperance
of a soldier, he demanded I be honest
with my scars. Though he was small

and I larger, I was certain my advantage
would hold. Should a fight break out
between us, my skill would render him
on the floor.

But those around us knew his face
and through his work, his pain,
and I was a loud-mouthed foreigner,
a tourist with a notepad.

No force of blows would win this,
no confrontation would end as mine.
He'd already lived at least four lives
and had the support to live nine.

So I had no choice to be honest and I'm too weak
to speak with pride. So I told him his work
made me angry and brought no tears to my eye.
His rejection of form broiled me, it left me bitter to see
him hide, the pain that obvious in him when I looked
in those dark eyes. For when I bleed,
I bleed in earnest,
I've no valve to twist,
no mask to hide.
And all his poetic implications meant
only those closest could look inside.

He could've laughed,
he could've walked away,
he could've sent his fans to break me.

Instead, he passed a ball
and told me to shoot.
I said I couldn't pay anything if I missed.

I expected the aphorism about missing shots never took, but he said

poems where like basketball where the court's invisible.
You only play against yourself and your success is on the replay.
There you'll hear the whole crowd cheer
and witness the scoreboard light.

I hated his analogy and was angry

that art needed spectators to be just. He said,
"Relax, don't worry."
and faded into dust.

The court was all but empty,
the hoops present with the lines.
But with no one around to see me
all I could do was practice.

I wonder what he'd do if
I spoke my anger to his face.
But knowing him, I wouldn't be there,
he's protected by his fame.

Yet in an artist's work they're copied.
His vision representing his heart's blood.
So if I dreamed that encounter,
maybe the poet and I talked.