Fathers tucked their newspapers under their elbows,
And arose to applaud the Celtics, and the stoic and regal Bill Russell,
Who was winning for Boston, despite fighting every neighborhood except Roxbury;  
Russell couldn’t get a home in a white neighborhood, but established estate in the paint,
Hauling in 24 boards while setting the pace.
The fast breaks, shoveled and swung passes across the parquet,
Were prompted by point guards and sixth men,
And had long run the Knicks, Hawks, and the great Wilt Chamberlain
Out of the gym midway through the fourth quarter. 
The variety of victory makes it interesting, and the results remain the same.
Red, reigning over basketball, and the Garden, 
Brings his lips to his cigar, and puffs and blows a smell and smoke
That arose to the rafters, and wandered off by itself,
To the place wherever shadows go.  

Matthew Johnson earned his MA in English from UNC-Greensboro, and is a former resident of CT and upstate NY. He's a former sports journalist who wrote for the USA Today College and The Daily Star (Oneonta, NY). His poetry has appeared in Maudlin House, The Roanoke Review, and elsewhere. He is a one-time Best of the Net Nominee (2017) and his debut collection, Shadow Folks and Soul Songs (Kelsay Books) was released in 2019. Twitter: @Matt_Johnson_D