“a complete waste of two shots”

Underneath the humming lights,  
Sweat upon the painted floor,  
The fans are tense, the tension bites—  
A tied-up game, two shots to score.

The leathered ball, a faithful friend,  
Nestled in familiar palms,  
A breath, the world folds to the bend,  
A hush descends; the silence calms.

You’ve practiced this a thousand suns,  
The flick, the arc, the hopeful swoosh—  
But now the mind’s a loaded gun,  
And nerves, like mischievous winds, whoosh.

The first one clangs against the rim,  
A mournful echo through the seats,  
Regret and doubt begin to brim,  
An anxious shuffle in your sneaks.

You close your eyes, recall your form—  
The hours spent beneath the hoop,  
Belief, a fragile candle warm—  
You shoot again. Another loop.

But iron sings its cruel song  
As ball meets edge, then rattles free,  
The score unchanged, the moment gone—  
A waste, it seems, for all to see.

Yet in those beats, defeat so slight,  
Lies something more than loss or shame,  
The rustle of the court at night,  
The heart that quickens in the game.

For even missed and cast away,  
Those shots become tomorrow’s fire—  
No waste is final, come what may,  
With every miss, the stakes climb higher.

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