Mouth taking the form

around like the moistening apple core

which deforms peculiarly

in the way of these things,

hateful face screwed up

huge whole lemon tree.

Mr. Poem places his hand

on the unsmoothed concrete

to keep balance

as he wipes the soles of his sneakers

with the other.

Courtside his father frowns

around. The ribbons on his wrist

signify apprenticeship

but hearken good fortune

which beads above his lip

in like sweat droplets.

The scoreboard can’t keep score

because the shopkeep left early

for a holiday for his religion

the whisperers and he abhor.

Mr. Poem takes the form

of the shot which rims out like

of the four children one

never makes it out the door.