As a kid, when my friends came
over, we would become stalagmites
on brown basement carpet, Nintendo
controllers in hand. Screen’s cold
glow our lamp in the cave. My dad,
one morning, stomped down
the stairs and yelled to play

outside. We sprinted into daylight
and blackened our palms
with a depressurized basketball.

We made the net’s swoosh sounds
with our mouths, shooting the ball
into a nearby branch, since the hoop
was erected not on pavement but
in the backyard. A dirty game of
grass and dirt. Later I learned
my Uncle Zane passed away that
morning, My father must have
felt so temporary and small,
and I wonder how long he was
in the kitchen, seething about
our wasted time.

When he ordered us to go upstairs
and outside, he was doing
the best he could to keep
us from being underground.

(originally published in Hello America Stereo Cassette, Winter 2022)