In Praise of Imperfect Poems

I mean the kind of poem
that from the jump tells you just what it’s about:
I’m  writing this for you, my son,
screaming your song in the kitchen.

I mean, who am I kidding?
I’m not Larry Bird.
I can’t tell you where I’m going to go,
and then go there, how I’m going
to beat you to the basket
and then do it–

left baseline, two hard dribbles,
pull up, BOOM–
I’m not that good.

And I know meta poems are kinda played out,
but I don’t care.
I like the baggy messes right now,
Melville style,
the torn shirt corners
or better yet, the shirts with your burp still on them
from this afternoon when I put you down for your nap.

I love the surprise in poems like that,
the one that comes with the mess.

I remember, age nine or ten,
our first family outing to the Ground Round Restaurant
in Roseville,
how thrilled I was by the popcorn and free soda refills before burgers,
but even more to see the film strip screen hanging down
and Chuck “The Rifleman” Person talking about going one-on-one
with Bird himself during the Pacers / Celtics series of ‘91,
and wide-eyed  watching them drop three after three on each other
and even more wide-eyed the way they jawed and jawed 
with the kind of goofy abandon that you have, my son.
They played.
You play.

And now I’m hundreds of miles away from you
for the first time since you were born
at some teaching conference I’m not sure why exactly I’m at 
and all I can think of is the way your mouth opens wide sometimes
when I hold you
and POPS just so over my chin like a suction cup
(I think you think it’s mommy’s boob).

Anyway, it’s wonderful.
Or how in the mornings before it gets too hot
I take you to the court at Cherokee Park
and we rehab my reconstructed elbow together
one four-foot jumper at a time
and after each one, we look at each other and giggle.

Your mom and I facetime and we don’t know
if at five months you can tell  if the pixels on the screen
come together to make me, or if the voice coming through the speakers
comes together to make me, but that doesn’t stop me
from singing Snuggle Puppy or Walking in Memphis at the top of my lungs,
or opening my mouth wide and moving slowly toward the screen. 

Yep, I’m pulling up from all over the place, kid–
shooters gonna shoot–
finger-trip control, busted elbow in,
gooseneck follow through–
you’re supposed to know, Bird would say,
it’s going in right at the release.
Ok, Larry Legend, that may work for you.
Me, I say a little prayer. 

ZACH CZAIA is a poet and high school English teacher living in Saint Paul, MN. His latest collection, ‘KNUCKLEHEAD,’ was published in 2021 with Nodin Press. He writes regularly on his Substack, “Teacher/Poet.”