In our neighborhood, blessed is every boy--
a hoop on every house, garage or pole by the driveway
Blessed am I, having a brother--
a hoop on our driveway for my dreams, too.
On the cracking, concrete court we learned
to take a charge and hold our ground
to see a goal and take the shot
to share the ball, the win, the loss
to spell P-I-G and H-O-R-S-E
to breathe in uncertain grace at the charity line.
In pickup games ‘til cold hands and darkness
drove us out of the lane and off the court,
On hot Saturdays, ten thousand reps, perfecting
a layup, a jumper, man-to-man, zone
We dreamed we could soar and score
as one and one-on-one
me and you, melding as a Dream Team.
Now in the second half, beyond the three point line,
the clock speeds on
and we still take the charge, attain a goal,
share the glories and defeats
and know the certain grace of charity on the Dream Team.
Hoop Dreams, then and forever.