Basketball Rival
by Sabrina Dawkins
I have to win.
700 shots a day.
When wrist gets sore, stop at 400.
My nemesis probably shoots 1,000.
I’m working up to it.
Him, I must destroy. We are at war.
Come game day, he’ll reach me his hand,
but I will ignore. No desire to befriend.
We are enemies; he must not realize.
He smiles too much. We are at war.
Does he not understand?
He’s too relaxed.
I’ve practiced hurt,
body mummy-wrapped
to keep it from telling me
the truth of its decline.
While bowing at the altar
of the three past trophies,
my lower back pinches me
to wake from the dream
and realize I’m still
two championships behind
him, my only enemy.