jordan pushes off at the top of the key—
guilty,
and buries it.

we watched the ‘98 NBA Finals on bunny ears.
i bent them behind the tv,
found the sweet spot—
not just for the signal,
for the shame.

less embarrassing that way,
in that middle-class neighborhood.
with friends over
and no cable.

my parents said they cut it
to save money.
truth is, i think the company did.
same week the priest came by
with the bread and peanut butter.
charity—just not the loud kind.

if it were today
i’d probably say
“fuck big cable,”
talk about corporate tyranny.
but that unusually warm night in ‘98—
everyone was watching channel 5,
public access,
so it didn’t much matter much.
the signal came in pretty clear.
and that felt rich to me.

-

‘didn’t know much.
but i knew we were poor.
poor feels like something spilled on the only shirt that fits right.
it hurts.

and even though some had it worse,
you notice things,
like how adults whisper
about you
right in front of you,
like you’re too young to know.

kids do too—
and they know better.

—

now my son
stays up late
watching the NBA Finals,
Thunder, Pacers, ’25
on a flatscreen the size of a compact car.

every app.
every game.
no cable.

“fuck big cable,” i said.

Halliburton’s was on a tear, until he tore his achilles.
that game one last second shot?
—good.

first one in the Finals since jordan.

never sleep on the underdog.

—

a few years later
mom and dad moved us to the city.
and poor kids there
had every channel—
including the premium channels,
and porn too.

“they call it a black box,”
the kid said.
“we steal the cable.
sick, right?”

-

don’t sleep on the ants either.