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.