B-Ball

The smell of kraft paper bags
full of fermenting grass.
The wet clinging to the air
as the clouds roll in from
the east.

We rhythmically bounce
the worn-out
basketball on cracking asphalt.

The shaking of the chain link fence
in the wind,
urging us on
cheering for our team.

Up past the colors of Harlem-
in Morningside Heights
we play ball on the courts
at the big park,
swirling in green springtime.
We breathe verdant air.

Then a real game moves in,
with real players and
two teams,
so we pack up our ball
and our bags
and walk to the corner bodega
for a quick, cold coca-cola.

We bounce the ball for the bodega
cat, before the Iranian man
smiles and laughs 
like we told a good joke,
and with our shorts
and sweatbands,
we are the
good joke.