Dear M.J., Thanks for the Help

I once wrote you a letter,
“I like the way you play. This is for class. I’m in fifth grade.”
You replied with a thoughtful invitation
To join your basketball camp. With, perhaps,
A few ads for sneakers.

You were concerned. I was never good at basketball.
Or baseball, or football, or soccer, though
I played a mean badminton in 7th grade.

I later learned from meat-heads,
Cheerleaders, and The Breakfast Club that
Nerds help you write papers, not members of
Any sports team.

This is a half-assed explanation
For my unwritten fifth grade paper.
But, Brian Johnson won’t write anymore.

When Space Jam came out –
Damn, that was bad – I didn’t buy.
It was better than Kazam…

Should we even talk about Kazam?
No. I’ll leave it to Wikipedia as of November, 24, 2007:
The film received overwhemingly negative reviews
From almost every critic.
It currently holds a 0% on Rotten Tomatoes.

Rest assured,
I didn’t buy it like I once bought your shoes.
I got my ass kicked in a mall
For wearing that pair of Air Jordan’s.

Later, I played my guidance counselor
With free Pirate’s game tickets in exchange
For writing me out of gym for two years.

I graduated; so, I’m assuming he bought it.

Enough about the past. We haven’t
Talked in a while; so, I’ll fill you in:

I am still relatively poor. Tonight,
In my apartment, I am wrapped in a gray
Nike sweat shirt; it’s six years old,
Once black, but faded,
The right sleeve is burnt.


My friend still has a ball
With your handprint, but
Tonight, I am thinking about
Smaller hands, two or three
To fill yours and still
Short of palming,
Feeling the garments they
Will never own.

It’s a joke, do you get it?
These clothes own us.

I almost look like everyone else.
If you look close though, and
You’ll have to with the hood up,
You’ll see it there. That ending;

The worn out socks
The small heels lifting and falling,
While walking that
Relatively uncomfortable stretch home.

Sincerely,
Me.