Air

A poem is like a basketball playoff…

The clock is ticking. I run the sidelines,
Hoping he sees I’m in the clear. My muse
Feints left, then hits me with a crosscourt pass.
Frantically I clutch at inspiration,
But the pass is good; I see the play clearly now.
I make my move and drive into the paint.
The opposition smothers me; I’m in
Too deep. I struggle to get the shot off.
It arcs gracefully over their outstretched
Arms and touches neither net nor hoop. AIR.
The buzzer sounds, the other team goes wild.
I watch in disbelief, then hang my head. I had
The chance, right there, but faltered down the stretch.
I turn away and start to leave the court
When my muse calls me back – I was fouled!
I take my free throws, and drop them for the win.
We celebrate… then start a new poem because
Madness isn’t confined to the month of March.