Handball

Our handball court is
a hot mess

A rutted sand
driveway -
surface
slick as ball
bearings

A crenellated
steel door -
handle jutting
like a rusty
knife

An ancient oak -
limbs grasping
down to block
the play

When our big red ball
strikes there's no telling
where it may careen

We're a bit of a mess
ourselves, my child and
I. We flail at the ball
we skitter and pant
The garage
door booms like a
dime store gong

one ricochet
arcs up high overhead
through the
oak's branches
- clean through -
as if piloted
not a leaf touched
to land
before us
like grace itself

we just watch,
she and I, entranced
and astonished
that such
perfection
could arise from
such
flawed
materials