This poem was also for creative writing. We had to write a poem about something we left unfinished.
Seven years of sweat like tears
Slickening the hard wooden floor,
Six pairs of sneaks through the years,
Well-loved and used, beaten and torn.
Five basketballs doted on til bare–
Bounced and bounced to baldness.
Four uniforms hard won, hard worn,
Ripped and smudged with rusty red.
Three broken fingers purple and fat,
Taped together and played on through.
Two numbers on my back that
I feel still–twenty-five and thirty-three.
One last game, years too young,
A soft pink scar on my knee.
I’ll not pretend my life’s over, bereft
Of meaning–a bird with clipped wings still can sing–
But in case you perceive a piece of me missing,
Know that shard can be found–
Whenever you hear a basketball bouncing
A bit of my blood is in the sound.