He soars...
Rising rhythmically from the court floor
Propelled by flesh and plastic.
Like Phoebus, his torso curves
Expectant dawn to blazing Midday
He soars...
From behind this arching body
A lithe languid arm arcs
Backward
Slowly, like Achilles scarred shard,
Stretching for his spear
This weapon, though no mere mesh
Of wood and flint
But a power massing
In every military sinew
From every nerve-end;
From every
Nerveless end
Surging, merging united
At the shoulder
Now charging, hurtling
Swiftly through bicep, onto forearm
And finally into
Fist
A low thud understates that
Graceful galvanization of force
The ball bewildered
Dizzy with dilemma
Dances and flips in a frenzy
As he once did thrown ragdoll-like
Planting rice in a field.
Surprisingly he smiles seeing
The opposition spread-eagled
Slapping at shadows.
My point.
Showering, later,
An afterthought nearly unbalanced his
Careful stance
"They call that manoeuvre
A spike".
He reflected
Soaping his tapered stump
