Your mother called you

a weasel on the basketball court.

She said it with love.

You were a small boy.

Fast on your feet,

you darted between them,

homed in on the basket.

 

No one would have pegged you

as a star,

yet you shone

when given the ball.

 

Today you’re

still a weasel 

slipping stealthily  

into my heart.

 

I owe a big thanks to my favorite poetry editor for whacking this poem into shape.

Readers, I apologize for the double-spacing of my poem. Ever since I installed a WYSIWYG add-in, the software forces a blank line when I push the ENTER key.