The Trike Returns:
Ring
Bob Mustin
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Pickup Game
Two hoops, naked, slouching,
Wink in the noonday sun.
Asphalt, cracked and faded,
Ten boys on the run.
Catcalls, labored breathing,
A pick, wet slap, a bump.
They watch the ball arc upward
Bloodied shooter slumps.
Bare hoop gulps down the ball,
A cheer, eight thump away.
A hand, a pull, no banter:
Two friends circle, resolve to play
The game as grim allies,
Give wing to leaden lives.
~Bob Mustin
Bob Mustin has had poetry in various publications since
1973, and was the editor of a small literary journal, The Rural
Sophisticate in the mid '90's. Email.
© 2002 by Bob Mustin. All Rights Reserved.
© Copyright 2002 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.
This page updated August 31, 2002.