Three girls shooting hoop with unbound laughter
the time boys weren’t around. One joked about
missed shots. One twirled the ball on her finger.
One talked about art and love and burn-out.
When I consider how my art was spent
it would never be like you and your boo,
your quick-trice slam-dunks, never a moment
all mine though I was the one you went to
when boys return, games end, your friends depart.
Even with the windows shut, pot and porn
cranked to 10, we could still hear your boyfriend
bragging down on the court. That was my art.
Not a lover, but in a world of scorn
the one who loved you, almost to the end.
