Final Timeout Poem by Joe Bisicchia

The squared shifting segmented neon lines
slash a clock up on the cinderblock wall
as time dwindles toward zero its last fragments.

Silence, and then the sound of net.

And suddenly and painfully
at the gymnasium roar
the neon lines now stand still.

Coach gathers.

We've been prolific in our breathing
and in our timeout we circle huddled
to make best of what's left,

needing to believing in him and each other

for our miracle that might be next.






Published in YARN, Spring/2017