The once-ambivalent baller
On a whim, parked the car,
Found a leather pumpkin
There for anyone.
He made three baskets,
Out of seven or nine.
Then he started bawling,
Limped back to the car,
And drove home.
The pivot foot, maybe forever flimsy,
And the aim is untrue.
He probably should admit
To such failing to his young team.
Maybe at halftime,
But never after the final buzzer.