When the backboard drops they spill like water over a fall,
woolly bodies frothing from the flight decks,
feet upon each others’ backs.
There is a boy behind the hurdles,
already knee bent in anticipation,
fingers spread for the catch.
Outside, a woman is selling cauliflower.
Holds the head of it like a newborn
between the palms of her hands.
A farmer rattles pounds in his fist,
counts his luck,
passed it on to the winning bid.
In a corridor there is a circle
of bowed heads and five pence jumps,
till the circumference is a singular.
A lone man is loading up,
clicks the gates on what he brought,
tries not to fumble the catch.
Someone whispers at an absence,
shakes a head at suspicion,
does a math of miles inside their head.
They wait to hear the hammer fall.