Three Scenes From A Weekend

Originally, this was three separate poems written over the years 1976-1980.  Never posted before, found in my ancient archives from that period.

I was a kid then, a teenager, and my reach was often far greater than my grasp.  I had an essay and a whole theory about what I was trying to do with poetry that when I read it now (of COURSE I kept it!) makes me giggle and blush.  But I was aiming at something, something larger than the individual Poem, even back then.  Didn’t have the life experience or the skill back then to make it work.  

Not sure I do now either, of course, but I am far more clear on my small abilities and my large ambitions than I once was, so…let’s say I think it’s worth a try.
Overheard from a dusk-dimmed driveway:

“Basketball’s simple —
you take the ball,
you dribble it, you move,
then you
shoot…”
Father, uncle or big brother speaking,
but who’s listening?  There is no second voice —
until after that, the good flat notes,
the rhythm of rubber on asphalt.

Two worn men on the sidewalk ahead of me.

One says,
“Every time I get my check
I try to hold on to the money.
They rob me at the bank
so I keep it all at home
but they rob me at home
but now I got them all fooled — 
I give all my money
to the man behind the counter
at the liquor store,” 
and his companion howls
and slaps him
on his age-sloped back.

On the bus

another old man, taller than I
by a head and a half,
muttering
again and again,
“…had a big
fat fat
fat fat
fat fat
wife, seven kids, forty years,
I know her face I think
but not her name…”

and now, by myself, in bed alone,
I say

may I never forget
that there are innumerable ways 
to get from one end of the court 
to the other
and may I never
scorn a journey
simply for where it ends.