– Bill Laimbeer (1979-1993)
How else would you describe my heroic
villainy? My game was made from pain,
graceless as the kid killing bugs each day
in endless auto-da-fé. There’s no poetry
to hardwood (just hardwork), no rainbow
holtom semaphore to save you courtside:
my stroke a dagger. “Bad Boy” in a fight,
I foul and flop the low post till you know
no way to the paint that will not hurt you.
But is there love (or something like love)
in a forearm shiver, a shove, an undercut?
What body can explain itself and fluently?
This engine of skin and sweat still guards
to touch; this heart still pistons in the dark.