Two – minutes, twoooo – minutes,

says the baritone,

and the crowd surfs and swells,

the clock ticks and tells,

the eternal sands of time.

We are made to die.

Each moment and ember of sun light

setting and re – setting;

the dust of our hearts contained.

Until the baritone begs us pardon,

namesake and fame,

by which we do – or don’t deny

implode fracture.

LeBron fades.

Rim, ruckus, ball lies flat on floor;

his name jarbled between one – two

tapping beats of the dribble,

post stop and pop.

Clank.

Is he clutch? Can he kiss and

close? Will he when he can he?

Ride a rafter’s heaven to point

of full explosion —

most valuable, most gifted, most determined,

most strong willed, most groomed,

but what then? why not? why not now?

To whom much is given much is required —

Dwyane Wade, Chris Bosh, Spunky Spo and

the part of Riley’s unforgivably plastic

and unmovable hair,

sifting the gold from the grain,

Like time ebbing out a star, creating another,

Before it bursts and falls and blues

depressed in the backdrop

of I shoulda, coulda, woulda…