He hits them with the killer crossover,
On his way to the basket.
As his dad struggles in the hospital,
Trying to grasp onto life, as it is
Slowly slipping through his fingers
He pulls up for the three,
The ball swooshes through the net.
As his mom works at her second job,
Bussing tables, just trying to provide.
He makes the no look pass,
Setting up the easy basket.
As his sister is in the crack house,
With a needle in her arm,
Getting lost in her own world.
Getting lost in a feeling.
He breaks away from the pack.
Jams the ball on the break.
As his friend is six feet under,
Riddled with bullets, results of a drive by.
He shrugs at the scouts,
Writing their notes from the bleachers.
A smile creeps onto his face.
As he jogs back down the court.
This is where he is free.
This is where he belongs.
This is where he lives.
The game goes on.