In a small white room

undisturbed on scuffed oak boards

sits a basketball

whose marmalade skin is froggishly-

textured, curved lines pointing

downwards, accentuating its stillness

here, where there is no hoop.

A small boy bends to lift the ball,

which is, in fact, a real ball,

not cast, not brushed with paint,

unaltered in any way --

when out of a side door

the flying curator rages:

“Don’t touch the art!”

To which the boy replies,

“it’s a ball.”

The court is quiet.

A hoop appears,

the loop in faith required

to score this game.

When the gallery door closes,

the curator goes swish.