Basketball is like this for young Indian boys, all arms and legsand serious stomach muscles. Every body is brown!These are the twentieth-century warriors who will never kill,although a few sat quietly in the deserts of Kuwait,waiting for orders to do something, to do something.
God, there is nothing as beautiful as a jumpshoton a reservation summer basketball courtwhere the ball is moist with sweat,and makes a sound when it swishes through the netthat causes Walt Whitman to weep because it is so perfect.
There are veterans of foreign wars herealthough their bodies are still dominatedby collarbones and knees, although their bodies still respondin the ways that bodies are supposed to respond when we are young.Every body is brown! Look there, that boy can runup and down this court forever. He can leap for a reboundwith his back arched like a salmon, all meat and bonesynchronized, magnetic, as if the court were a river,as if the rim were a dam, as if the air were a ladderleading the Indian boy toward home.
Some of the Indian boys still wear their military hair cutswhile a few have let their hair grow back.It will never be the same as it was before!One Indian boy has never cut his hair, not once, and he braids itinto wild patterns that do not measure anything.He is just a boy with too much time on his hands.Look at him. He wants to play this game in bare feet.
God, the sun is so bright! There is no place like this.Walt Whitman stretches his calf muscleson the sidelines. He has the next game.His huge beard is ridiculous on the reservation.Some body throws a crazy pass and Walt Whitman catches itwith quick hands. He brings the ball close to his noseand breathes in all of its smells: leather, brown skin, sweat,black hair, burning oil, twisted ankle, long drink of warm water,gunpowder, pine tree. Walt Whitman squeezes the ball tightly.He wants to run. He hardly has the patience to wait for his turn."What's the score?" he asks. He asks, "What's the score?"
Basketball is like this for Walt Whitman. He watches these Indian boysas if they were the last bodies on earth. Every body is brown!Walt Whitman shakes because he believes in God.Walt Whitman dreams of the Indian boy who will defend him,trapping him in the corner, all flailing arms and legsand legendary stomach muscles. Walt Whitman shakesbecause he believes in God. Walt Whitman dreamsof the first jumpshot he will take, the ball arcing clumsilyfrom his fingers, striking the rim so hard that it sparks.Walt Whitman shakes because he believes in God.Walt Whitman closes his eyes. He is a small man and his beardis ludicrous on the reservation, absolutely insane.His beard makes the Indian boys righteously laugh. His beardfrightens the smallest Indian boys. His beard tickles the skinof the Indian boys who dribble past him. His beard, his beard!
God, there is beauty in every body. Walt Whitman standsat center court while the Indian boys run from basket to basket.Walt Whitman cannot tell the difference betweenoffense and defense. He does not care if he touches the ball.Half of the Indian boys wear t-shirts damp with sweatand the other half are bareback, skin slick and shiny.There is no place like this. Walt Whitman smiles.Walt Whitman shakes. This game belongs to him.


free verse

Ms.Basham the firts one i posted is a lyric not a ballad sorry