Who claims the bullet hole
sunk into the wall of the Jackson’s garage?
Is it ours, or maybe, the neighbors’?
It ripped through their mortar, after all.
They may have found the casing next to their Camry.
Could even be my brother’s. He used the wall
the most, bounce pass after bounce pass
until the paint gave up. It sits left of my basketball
net, far from the maple marking the foul
line, but I don’t want no part.
Maybe the camera crew wants it though;
they spent all afternoon studying its pronounced
round cheekbones while the news asked about
where we got it from. Maybe they wanted to
adopt it or at least find an owner
to give it back to—someone who had so much
emptiness, he had to give some away,
pour it out with so much noise
it didn’t need a sign. The whole block knew
where to see what happened,
everyone wanting a piece to look at,
but you can’t share a bullet hole,
only grow one so fast you don’t notice
the shadow it casts over the yard
until, no matter how much sun
shines in, the wall refuses to let go.