and the grit of dirt slipping through your teeth like a pancaked hand flat on cement surface. Ball. Court. It is a good morning and the sunrise rises to give life to the game. This game: ours. We run and jump and sing; old bones
made to jog its memory. Bounces the ball and we run again. Laughing like children. Next to the children. Leaping after them. Watch as the ball rises high in the sky next as outstretched arms give chase to them: its hands caked with dirt; gravel on nails from the swept cement rock and line paint. This we
share like a communion, a church service. Young and old, here and not here we rise and we fall prostate next to the prayers of the net, the brush of fingertips against fabric against rubber, each palm of the ball a Sunday chorus stretching, congregation, religion,
swept from the sky and made to kiss ground where the gods of our sweat and grit belong.