The Player

A lean forward,
A look to the left.
The sphere of interest passes inches form feet,
ready to explode.
A ballet begins.

Still photography shrouds a thousand hidden impulses
unfolding into an artful attack.
Defenders,
unaware of minute shifts in the opponents stance,
remain unprepared.

The ball's spin skids to a halt in a palm-down hand,
waiting, expecting that which was once pushed away
to return to some predestined point of rendezvous.

With miraculous precision, a body cruises to the right
leaving other bodies virtually stationary,
making fool's gestures into the air.
The air, ahh, the air.

Nothing is present but the player
extended in the ecstasy and beauty of conquest.
All energy focuses
toward the aggressive loss of the very thing
which is presently so elegantly under control.

Is the awe of the fan over the power or,
perhaps the poetry in motion
or is it the thrust downward as one
with near-perfect control relinquishes it ?

What a hero that can give everything,
only to let go of the only thing that,
for a single moment, is left.

When done,
the player lands on sure feet and smiles and rests.