Ingrid Laymann Poet I do not know?

- Playing Basketball - With My Widowed Father

We play this game each time we 
talk, in person or on the phone,

he is the backboard with the basket, 

I dribble on to find the right
 positions taking careful aim,

as I am trying hard to dunk my
well-aimed shots into that hoop so
narrow, so hard-rimmed it makes 
the ball rebound on me — 

but very rarely, once in a while,  
I happen to drive one home, that

is taken in with wailing sounds,

slides through the tangled net, and
then, eventually, will plummet, 

hard, and land right on my toes.

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