1.7 Seconds

Elijah’s perched

upon my shoulders,

surveying his kindly kingdom

in the yard. Every finch and

chipmunk bowing their heads 

in supplication.

Elijah would have been

born if not for my missing

the rubbish bin, my toss

of a crumpled page, my bending

to pick it up. And if my scribbles

had been better, I would have

never blown my stack, hurled

it like some wannabe

Michael Jordan, trying to beat

the buzzer

in some phantom, 7th game.

He would have swung

like an iron ball

from my outstretched arms—

the locking of our hands,

my feigning a hammer throw—

for an elusive, Olympic gold;

his boots of

white a-whirl above the

grass, a blur of giddy feet.

He would have told me

that he loved me

if I hadn’t changed my

mind about the paper.

One point seven seconds

of indecision—judging

that the store brand’s

A-OK.

Elijah would have beamed

through Happy Birthday—

regardless of my botching every

note—angelic in his

smile, the gleam of teeth that

rose on through his gums,

like moles which slowly dig

their way to the surface.

I should have learned

the proper scales, ducking

out of lessons

as a kid, so I could bounce

a rubber ball that made

a thud upon the ground,

like a nail that’s being

driven in a coffin.

All this set me back

in the time an amber

jumps to stop. That day

I picked my wife

up after work. It’s odd

it took so long for her

to recover from concussion,

the loss of a missing

carriage. Someone

must have took it

in the night, left

at the end of the drive

while I pondered things

important—how quickly

she might learn

those jarring turns—

in a chintzy, chair-on-wheels.

This never would have

happened if not for Jordan—

damn to hell

his pricey, airy shoes.

The pause of breath

it took me—to eye

his signature,

there along the insole,

pretending I got lucky,

won a pair

of courtside tix. That he

signed it with a Sharpie—

the one he grabbed on

sale at Grand & Toy,

looking for a Furby

for his child,

seeing nothing but

pens & stickies

on the spinner,

twirling it like a Spalding

on his finger, wishing

he could fling it in the

air in a final heave—

before the siren & its red

wail time to go.

Andreas Gripp

May 20, 2025

Michael Jordan