Perry

by Barry Peters

He back-kicks the metal door
while jiggling its silver handle,
jimmies the high school gym
so we can ball on a winter’s night.

The irony: Perry has no game,
his dribble too high, his jump shot
too flat. What he does have is gab;
when the police arrive, guns drawn,

Perry argues, We entered, sir,
but we didn’t break anything.
At Mass the next morning I consider
Perry’s courage. We aren’t stars,

or even second string, but we do have
each other. I count that blessing,
and sometimes still do, decades later,
dozing in a different pew, a different church

with the bleary sense we’ve hooped
past midnight, dreaming of Perry
in the choir loft stealing a seat
at the organ, kicking into a little soul.

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Barry Peters and his wife, the writer Maureen Sherbondy, live in Durham, North Carolina. Publications include Barrow Street, Grist, Image, New Ohio Review, Rattle, RHINO, and The Southern Review.