They called him Silk for the moves
he wove into
the fabric of his game, the softness of his hands
catching the ball, the smooth arc his body traced
on its flight to the hoop, the seamless movement
he shot the ball through a hole in
how he scored thirty but only broke sweat for five.
Years later, when I began to practice medicine,
I wanted his flawless game, his complete control,
every decision effortless, even
under the pressure
of an appointment book and fifteen minute clock,
cool with the bad calls that come at the end of a day,
my skills perfected, my touch so precise
I could match my moves in any
disease or death with a grace as smooth as Silk.