Like the unemployed or hungry-eyed Game-planning in wait. Recall one cat They called Jesus on account it was Scrawled in marker ‘cross his sweatBand. Up in years—all ribs and ligaments, Every knuckle taped tight, clunky Kareem Goggles over bloodshot eyes—but out hustled Any varsity team hotshot thinking they got Quicksilver, some crossover would burn Jesus. And how quickly youth, the ball, returned To his hands, hook let fly, the arc hung Like power lines on a fat, golden dusk.
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