The Dead Don’t Play Ball
Will Falk
Will Falk
We knew this city was lifeless
when all the courts were empty.
Most of the hoops were pulled down,
blown over, broken, rims cracked
like the crowns of decapitated kings.
The silence was slashed open
by the wind and the plastic bags,
strung up, trapped in sagging
chain link fences. The pavement
couldn't compete with the litter’s lament.
Concrete needs the percussion of
bouncing leather, the scuff
of squeaking sneakers to sing.
No one played horse. No one
flogged a dead one, either. Ghosts
were long gone. Spirits hid at home,
safe and sedate in their discount
liquor bottles. One hoop still stood.
No net. A slightly-crooked, ten-foot
empress of the abyss. She dared us
to shoot, to fill her and our emptiness.
We couldn’t. All we brought
was a deflated, phantom ball
and we were too scared we’d miss.
Will Falk is a poet, attorney, and activist. His law practice is devoted to helping Native American communities protect their sacred lands. He is the author of When I Set the Sweetgrass Down (Wayfarer Books ’23).