Court Sounds

Thud.

Pause.

Thud.

A metronome for nothing

but the afternoon's slow slide.

Three blocks west, I guess,

at the cracked-court park.

I’m trying to read.

Sun on the page, the kind that blurs

the edges of letters.

But the sound cuts through,

a dull, repetitive heartbeat

against the hum of traffic,

the far-off shriek of a siren

that fades into nothing.

It’s not angry.

Not joyful. Just there.

A body, pushing air,

rubber against grit.

Someone’s focus,

a world condensed

to that single, blunt contact.

And I'm here,

listening, counting

the soft insistence of it.

Until it stops,

or I stop hearing it,

and the quiet just feels

more quiet.