You don’t know who was a baller 
A dancer
Hip hop trip dancing  
On stages  
Synchronous with teammates 

Grown 
In grown up clothes: 
Workpants, 
Dresses, 
Neckties, 
Orange vests 
Bright green labor shirts. 

Grown. 
Identified by jobs, 
Families, 
Pastimes and hobbies, 
Passions and problems. 

Grown. 
But who knows what is in there still? 
The dancer, 
Hours of practice after hours of school 
Hip hop dancing  
That skip stop swaying 
With a synchronous stomping 
With the tuff dressed team.  

The baller,  
Lane shifting spinning swisher 
Grunting sweating D in your face 
Floor slapper, chest bumper 
Feels teammates all around 
Without seeing them 
Connected by the ball 
Courageous for the ball 
Getting rejected by the ball 
Then craving it more 

It’s still inside them 
You will see it 
When he grabs the cup 
Just as it starts to fall
without seeming to look; 

When the ball dribbles 
off the court, 
And she scoops it up 
But instead of tossing it 
Back to the players 
She takes a shot 
Her dress swishing with the net.