To Grow

As smooth as the crease down a freshly laundered shirt,
history washed clean of assumptions — “too short”
reminder of how we sell each other short.

Remembering Jeremy Lin and Linsanity
when he crossed over the front pages in New York,
breaking all the rules, I sit in the stands 

waiting for my daughter to wrap up
her gymnastics practice, watching instead
a 6-year-old kid coiling his body 

toes to finger tips to launch basketballs one after another
through the net, dribbling between his legs, already
defending his father like an octopus 

without a hint of the arrogance that comes with skill,
still young enough to play, son of a Chinese immigrant
playing out his dreams. 

                                    For twenty minutes, I believe
in amber waves of limitless possibility, savoring the grace
of joy that will become liquid movement, baseline jumper. 

I pass his father on my way out, share my admiration,
“Yes, but he’s too short” like an apology —
but he’ll grow, dreaming in my heart that we’ll all grow 

to make space for this child, for all the children,
for their parents, for the joy of being in the game,
defying gravity on our 25,0000 mile court.
 

What’s in a number 

Asked to choose his jersey number, Roberto Clemente Walker counted
the letters in his name - 21 - as reasonable a process as any. 

When the encyclopedia was first conceived, critics scoffed at the conceit
that one could collect all known knowledge, and, worse, organize it randomly,

that is, alphabetically. 

I rearranged my bookshelves, one in order of height, one in order of color,
one in order of the author’s first name. Just because.

Playing god to something. 

When my 21st birthday arrived, it felt anticlimactic, leaving for Germany
four months later, where drinking was already old hat. 

I always wanted 21 in homage, a number iconically divisible —
sevens for touchdowns, threes for long range buzzer beaters. 

Today, I think I’d choose 17, a number unique, indivisible, just a number
worn by Shohei Ohtani and Jeremy Lin, two role model
human beings. 

Holding up mirrors to our expectations.

soundings

intermittent transmissions, morse static
— I’m here — I’m — here — here — 

Marco Polo of the inner world, swirling
cosmic synapses. Nerves like horns, trumpeting
tomorrow — I’m here — I’m — here — here 

snooze, then snooze again, alarming that it’s Thursday
again — never Friday — 

maybe weekends could leapfrog the weekdays, break
through the static — I’m here — here — not lost
in the coffee haze of morning. Leapfrog victoriously — 

leapfrogging across rolling green hills — weekends
upon weekends. The sheep have gone to pasture. 

Cloudless, agendaless, no more counting.
Sunlight breaking up transmissions — I’m here — I’m
— I’m — here. I’ll be — looking into old boxes 

in the attic. Where symphonies wait. They rain
into my mug, the promises of tomorrow. But today 

I’m here. A trumpet, breaking through the static.
A marching band message. Here.

Author’s Biography

Found lurking in dark alleyways, John Reinhart is a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association and an itinerant troublemaker. Author of eight poetry collections, Reinhart also has collected an assortment of wire and a habit of gluing things together. Find his work at http://home.hampshire.edu/~jcr00/reinhart.html