NBA Live
by John Krumburger
Before the game an anticipation
shared with strangers, each of us possessed
of the same silly towel
meant to wave above our heads.
There is the light show, the noise,
the food (high calorie, low nutrition, over-priced),
the cheerleaders (minimum wage caricatures
posed for maximum leering),
and the souvenirs (capitalism on steroids).
But where is the playground joy,
the heart’s tongue flung open
trash talking with gravity?
Or do they feel it even here
-corporate sponsorships emblazed on their chests?
With a drum roll the contest commences:
EVERYBODY CLAP YOUR HANDS,
lights flash, each play repeating on screen;
the artistry –
crossover dribble, step-back jumper, no look pass –
the food, the cheerleaders, the souvenirs,
the halftime acrobats.
And then finally the score tabulated, certified, accepted.
We come down like a flood,
like an army on the move,
like one sinuous body descending stairwells
then surging through long halls
to where doors release to the street
and the bowels of downtown:
taxis, drunks, hangers-on, more souvenirs,
the flatulence of buses,
the surprise of bells.
When beauty and grace devolve,
the soul retreats.
There,
there I spot the soul.
She is a woman with a cup held for coins
or bills and a sign which says
NEED CASH FOR WEED.
And still more commuters are flushed out
–the stroboscopic after flash
exciting their neurons
in the absence of having a dream life–
coming down like the tail end of a bender,
bursting into the neon and exhaust
in a hurry and without gratitude,
shoulders hunched against the cold.
John Krumburger has published in Great River Review, Comstock Review, Rhino, Another Chicago Magazine, Artful Dodge, Flint Hills Review, and elsewhere. In 2008 Backwaters Press published The Language of Rain and Wind, his first full-length volume of poetry. His latest volume of poems, Because Autumn, was published in 2016 by Main Street Rag Press. He lives with his wife in Minneapolis and works as a psychologist in private practice in St. Paul.