87 Jump Shots
arc silently in April’s breeze, some
bank off the muffled glass, some
clatter around and out. My hands
drum the ball over cracks, dribbles
echo back over unplanted
furrows. I am alone in the evening, tentative and
grateful. Dandelions pick up yellow
heads for the storm, hoping the
incoming wind notices them, throws their
jagged leaves. The spring gusts
knock off my aim, ricochets bounce
longer and air balls blow further into the
mulberries. I am shooting to see what
number I can reach before
one of my sons interrupts me. I hear them
playing piano, fingers so
quickly plucking out allegro
rhythms. Crossover and swish,
staccato beats on the concrete,
ticking like a metronome. Moments
undisturbed vary between mint and
vinegar, refreshing then acrid
when I know that I cannot
xerox these afternoons when they are
young, oblivious to how often I miss, just so
zealous to chase my rebounds down.
Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry—all hoping to create home. He and his wife live beside a dilapidating orchard in Indiana, where he tries to shape dead trees into playhouses for his four boys. His poetry has been featured in Whale Road Review, River Mouth Review, EcoTheo Review and Ekstasis Magazine.