This abandoned post

on the edge of the driveway,

holding up the backboard and the rim

for more than twenty years now

in the same rusted pose,

like a monument to my children’s

childhoods, which I pass beneath

every day on my way to work,

this memorial to H-O-R-S-E,

and Around the World,

and nothing-but-net,

a metal net that went KA-CHING,

a sound so rich and gratifying,

whenever we scored a basket,

and it still tinkles softly

when the wind blows through it,

though no one has taken a shot

in years. The whole contraption

with its frozen posture

reminds me a little of myself–

still holding out, still holding up

the circle of an empty embrace

for those same children

who are done being children,

who have moved away and won’t

be moving back. It’s a little sad

and a little ridiculous, frankly,

that a whole sandbox of sand

that once upon a time I poured

into that hollow base–

so the whole thing wouldn’t tip over–

is still sitting quietly inside

just waiting for those children

to come out and play.