Suburban Lovechild

Rookie - 788 Points (Los Angeles, CA)


It's early November '91,
and I quite can't remember,
feeling this humbled, seeing
Magic stumble,
off his shiny crown,
and the little boy
Who once glared at 32,
fixated by a dribbling
Rhythm, so compulsive,

so majestic,

so unattainable,
by his own standards,
that he had no choice,
but to glare,

It's different now,
A leather cacophony,
dribbling dissonance,
laymen lay-ups,
Leading us to believe
it was a mere illusion,
but I believed in Magic.


Submitted: Friday, July 11, 2014
Edited: Saturday, January 17, 2015

Topic of this poem: basketball

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