We learn names fast
on this street
by watching footwork
hearing them chant
for whoever holds court
a victory at their feet
that can’t be bought
Scuffed school shoes
toeing the ball
this way, that
lost again in seconds flat
again, again, again
cawing verbs, begging
for a battered balloon
a sphere so tattered
one could assume
it nears death
Again, for it they call
a squalling clutch of baby birds
leak, lank
breathing cold air
like ship steam
bolting up the flank –
the hot chimneys
of their unblemished lungs
pumping fuel
a scrabble, a dance
none too cool for
rough knees and shins
Their backwards prance
gains pace, with speed
stab and volley
thrilled, each shriek in kind
as the ball flies upwards
they gaze, running blind
their ragged god
lost in the winter sun
ataraxicat 