On an LA Basketball Court

Black stolen from soles
                                       sketch a sad abstract
on the smooth surface
                                    that burns
where others tear.  

                                 Spray on north wall like
red-hots dotting a white-frosted birthday cake.

Gradients of sky transition smoothly from
the burning
                  sun
                        north,   
                                   where blue is always
truest, and moss grows on trees,
                                                      cool tones
hiding not from sun
                                 but equator.
There is much to fear from the center
of things.
                All lines find their way
there,
           and all lines end,
                                        as the day
gradates into night
                             and streetlights
hum subdued goodbyes once more
to concrete dashed with line’s end.

Sounds lost down the bleak street
with the striking hammer that punctured
the thin shell of dusk.  
                                   One young boy
still watches,
                       white shoes ruined.
                                                     He leans,
sniffs air tinged with quick powder burn,
then
         slowly inches his fingertip toward
the sanguine pool
                             to the hole that geysered
as the man hit the concrete,
                                             cautious,
curious
             reaching for a touch
of another line's end.


Zebulon Huset