Last Shot Poem By Jon Veinberg

Last Shot Poem By Jon Veinberg

Before the game
Farnsworth had said
his heart felt on fire
and inside the heart
was trapped a small dark
horse kicking out
at the bolted door
of his body. Whether
he scored 33 or 34
no one seems to remember
but as for me there’s
not enough beer and bean dip
in this county to save me
should the world erase
that clean pick and roll
in double-overtime and how
that orange globe of sun
rose from his fingers that night
to mount its peak three rims
above a landscape of smoke
and balded heads, swayed
and suspended itself
for what seemed a comet’s lifetime,
until it finally left its arc
and descended as a ball on fire
travelling through a serene
and perfect net.
It was the first
and only time some of us
cried out in joy so openly
and in public, and he pumped
his fists toward and through
the rafters so grandly
that with my own eyes I saw,
the glow his body took,
until it too ignited into flame,
and out of his chest exploded
a herd of wild dark horses
galloping so fast
they left permanent shadows
on the blurred faces
of all those who applauded him.

Jon Veinberg
from Oarless Boats, Vacant Lots

Last Shot Poem By Jon Veinberg

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