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Poem	When I was twelve, I shoplifted a pair Of basketball shoes. We could not afford Them otherwise. But when I tied them on, I found that I couldn’t hit a shot. When the ball clanked off the rim, I felt Only guilt, guilt, guilt. O, immoral shoes! O, kicks made of paranoia and rue! Distraught but unwilling to get caught Or confess, I threw those cursed Nikes Into the river and hoped that was good Enough for God. I played that season In supermarket tennis shoes that felt The same as playing in bare feet. O, torn skin! O, bloody heels and toes! O, twisted ankles! O, blisters the size Of dimes and quarters! Finally, after I couldn’t take the pain anymore, I told My father what I had done. He wasn’t angry. He wept out of shame. Then he cradled And rocked me and called me his Little Basketball Jesus. He told me that every cry Of pain was part of the hoops sonata. Then he laughed and bandaged my wounds— My Indian Boy Poverty Basketball Stigmata.
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