All Text, Music, and Illustrations, including Paintings, Photographs, and 3D models, Copyright © 2022 by Jim Robbins.

Pounding Stone with Pestle

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HOOPS

I shoved the ball toward the hoop

with all my might, missing by two or three feet.

The second shot, the ball hovered on the rim

and dropped in. My brother punched my arm

while my father cheered. I dashed into the house

to tell my uncle that I had made a basket. On TV,

fire was consuming a cross-legged man in an orange robe

as traffic swirled around him. Sobbing,

I flung myself back outside. “Why would a man

light himself on fire?” I bleated. My uncle

stepped into the doorway: “The boy just needs

to get used to it.” (My Dad told me later

that my uncle’s plane was shot down in WWII,

and my uncle was still waking up screaming

at night.) My brother kept bouncing the ball.

My Dad draped his arm around me for a moment,

then sauntered over to my uncle to ask

what caused the outburst. Soon they all went inside.

I paced the driveway for awhile, then grabbed

the ball, shooting again and again until I made it in.