Free Throw

I'm trying to write a poem about basketball,
But it won't sink,
About the wind off the ocean,
And over Twin Peaks,
Sweeping the court on the hill
I can see Oakland from here.

About how the backboard quivers
The fog stained net
How good the glorious sun feels,
And even better to rest in the shade,
Of this douglas fir.

Just shooting baskets with my son,
Lay-ups and half-court hail-mary's,
And chasing balls,
While small dogs play in the lumpy field.

My arms know,
Better than a hug,
Better than writing this poem,
Everything,
To put the ball through the hoop.

But they fail.
It's short, long, left, right.
We blame the wind,
And this glorious sun.