ilk's shoes pound the concrete
sweat soaking a triangle on his broad back
as he lopes
his grey shirt reads FBI
he pauses to strip it off
his shorts slipping dangerously low
even as he squints in the face of the burning sun
he plays alone
having reached the playground long before the others
it is one of his many habits
he is always early
afraid of missing something
although he never does
Sweat slips down the corner of his jaw
He wipes it away absently with the back of one broad hand
His long right arm rises
he shoots from where he stands
And watches the succession of Ball through Hoop
with the unspoken joy of penetration
Net being long gone
and runs to retrieve the ball
Long thighs pumping
As soon as the globe is in his hand he leaps to stuff it back
through the metal halo
his measurement of time and space and trajectory perfect
again and again
run , leap , throw , catch
run , leap , throw , catch
run , leap , throw , catch
the repetition numbing and glorious
a sort of athletic Plan Nine from Outer Space
blanking out all conscious thought
conspiracy
aliens
even mutants and bigfoot
emptied from his waking brain
the only echo coming from
a dusty corner where
Elvis croons to a red haired mermaid
and Mulder smiles
shaking the sweat from his head
like an over-thought Labrador retriever
sending fleeting drops in all directions

 

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