Ntwademela, he who greets with fire in Sesotho, 
hails from post World Cup South Africa 
by way of grandfather and father’s West Virginia, 
attended Rutgers playing what America calls football, 
a scholarship to study econ and pre-med bio, 
then graduated to found a nearby tech startup— 
says, “what I’ve learned…I’ll always use it”— 
does not worry how long he’ll live in Canarsie, Brooklyn, 
before moving on, smiles while scoring goals on a Newark 
Riverfront summer afternoon, a pick up with a Spanish- 
speaking friend who says he’s gotta run 
when I start asking too many questions, who 
Ntwademela later confides is homeless, adds, 
“If you go to Market St., you still see lots of them.” 
On a polished turf pitch in the middle of a renaissance 
he who greets with the energy of the sun declares, 
“I’m not a politician. We are all people. I do what I can.” 

“Together with Nike Basketball Design Director Leo Chang, Nike designer Ben Nethongkome built
a shoe that could harness the power of Kyrie’s lightning-fast footwork on the court, and speak to
his unique style off the court.” – nike.com 

Did you see him speeding by in all black and white? 
Full force before he hits that midcourt in and out cross 
and you catch his size 6 Q-Tip bright white Nike signs 
right before he hits the backstep to fadeaway jumper. 

He’s the man in these mid-tops that give him bounce 
from University Heights to the Ironbound. Every touch-up 
a Saturday morning cereal bowl spoon feeding of catalog-like 
information before dropping dimes to a teammate. 

“He’s getting past me because of his flexible traction…” 
he runs down the court and cuts like grass before 
taking his jumpshot. The next play he makes a layup 
with my large hand in his face and lets me know, 

“His responsive cushioning is giving him ups!” I go slightly 
left when his body goes slightly right and I catch the gleam 
of an orange sun in his glasses when he yells, “Curry!” 
burying another jumper from the lean. “You see the split 

down his sole? That’s how I can shake you,” he says. This kid 
has dreams like all the others that spit wishes onto this court 
he spits a snow globe of hustle in a glob of phlegm. Even 
screaming a Warrior’s name I see him closer to the man 

that represents his shoe, “Did you know Kyrie Irving is from
New Jersey?… West Orange… but he went to school in Elizabeth…”
And he tells me basketball is his life when I’m taking a water break
in this summer heat. That he’s at this playground whenever his mother

can bring him on Saturday or when his sister has a softball game. 
His park is like my park where I had a similar dream. Where I based 
skill off of the double handed dunk stitched to the side of my shoe, 
hanging low in the post, backing down twice before taking a powerstep 

to the rim. I didn’t mind if I played half court or full court, as long as 
I was allowed to stay in this box where time was only understood in the
score of 21 and win-by-two. Where throwing orange suns until dusk 
helped us burn brighter than the idols we worshipped on our sneakers. 

Dilapidated heart
Mouth descends
In Latin, she means beautiful
Cow-like coat
Unable to contain her happiness,
She searches for hands
Warmth and treats 
You look away, 
From the Earth that Bella plays in 
From the soccer field that held your dreams 
From a being that stares back
Smiles of ineffable reflection
A reminder of a lover,
Your face, a reminder of who is no longer here
Fifteen and blossoming of a future,
Promised a rose garden,
Would you have stayed in school?
Your departure, a mystery
A few weeks and you’ll be homeschooled
What will your future say in adages,
Neff hat, purposeful on a cold day
Acne on your cheeks
Hallmark of youth,
You say goodbye,
I’m reminded of absence once more

Dawn, your fingers bright with tats of roses and bling,
don’t throw a fit because your Portuguese Orion
strolls the park on break a couple times a week.
He’s not hunting for some sweet young thing,
he says, just likes watching the people, pick up ball,
gets the feels, the peace he doesn’t from working
in a body shop, remembering the blasted beasts—
stacks of trailers when this “beautiful, clean park…
was just a dump…now “it’s a whole new city”—
shinier than Troy (the smartass poet interjects)—“Huh?
“I’m from the Ironbound,” says Orion, whose real
name he asks to keep off book, but whose first initial
rhymes with “are,” as in we are walking in the sun
regardless, listening to our muses on our twists and turns…

I couldn’t tell what it was
at first

my sister and I thought
turtle-myth

like the Jersey Devil
still living in forest fires

this sighting can outlast
dumps of chemical waste

evolving a filtration system
within lungs not absorbing lead

it could’ve been a burlap bag
that held something like rice

there is a Seabra’s in the Ironbound
and another in Harrison

that could kiss this river littered
with bags and bag-like items

plump and floating
it could’ve been a rock she said

but I remember reading
about the five families of New York

and our five wards and these bridges
have seen rocks around ankles that sink

to the bottom
by the boardwalk

When it revealed itself as a car tire
not bald nor used

I wondered how it got there
in the water brand new but travelled

I went scouring the park
that morning for a culture

to dissect a down neck history
to spin a new legend

around a thing that was only a tire
it was still in the water

out of place and something to ponder
this unused object without myth nor story

just floating in the water

With hesitation, we approach 
Make judgments of safety, 
Without hearing you, 
Judgments on the threads that hang on you, 
From an infamous hoodie 
Confiding your reality 
Sincerity acknowledged with stares 
With privileged laughter 
A self-possessed panhandler, 
Need in our eyes, 
That we could never pay forward 
And when the last moment arrives, 
Departure— 
Without George Washingtons or Lincolns, 
Our pockets turned inside out 
Your eyes drift down, 
You walk away into the path 
The trees fall by your side, 
Disappointment reconstructed 
Black and grey, your silhouette among the pigeons, 
Monet’s watercolors, 
Colorblind