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Handball

Submitted by Michael Mayhew on April 17, 2016

Our handball court is
a hot mess

A rutted sand
driveway -
surface
slick as ball
bearings

A crenellated
steel door -
handle jutting
like a rusty
knife

An ancient oak -
limbs grasping
down to block
the play

When our big red ball
strikes there's no telling
where it may careen

We're a bit of a mess
ourselves, my child and
I. We flail at the ball
we skitter and pant
The garage
door booms like a
dime store gong

one ricochet
arcs up high overhead
through the
oak's branches
- clean through -
as if piloted
not a leaf touched
to land
before us
like grace itself

we just watch,
she and I, entranced
and astonished
that such
perfection
could arise from
such
flawed
materials

Comments

joshua mertz

July 14, 2016

That such perfection can come from such flawed material. The human condition. The beauty of stochastic perfection. Difficult to accept and embrace our flaws, until some subtle transcendance. A good poem and strong.

Michael Mayhew

May 3, 2017

This one - when first posted a year ago - felt like it was a good idea but too verbose. 12 months later I think I may have finally gotten it right.