Why should he?
Perhaps the coach
a few teammates at the most.
But I never supposed him. After all
we both knew I had hit math's stone wall.
I was on the sofa, my right thigh
doubled-sized from a sharp knee blow
as I drove full speed for the hoop.
At the time
I think lightly on his house call
but as years pass
it becomes an act of greater weight.
So I phone and tell him
how I've come to value his kindness.
He's 83 and remembers, says
you made my day.
Still, in the right light
standing before the long mirror
I see a subtle dent across my thigh
-the scar in a fascial tear?
It's then I sometimes see him
standing at a powdered blackboard:
he's dressed in a grey suit, shirt and tie
his raised left arm keeps him oblique
to the slate, his left hand is awkward
like it's not born to write, even so
with the click of chalk he marks
delta by delta the continuum
linking x y z
while the other arm
dangles limp by his side
and the other hand
contracted into a soft claw
hangs useless
below the sleeve's white cuff.