Tennis Anyone
At eighty-five they regard me fondly, the old guy in the
long
White flannels, the too-large panama hat, sweater vest in
any
Weather, the comic old dog shuffling deaf to the service
line.
They see the fool, they do not see the shoulder cuff the
elbow
The knee inside being made and remade, metals and sinews
From the lives of others given so that I may keep on making
These ground strokes, keep binding crafty memory to these
Fuzzy yellow spheres, my muscles ropy and visible through
This papery skin, remembering everything about your game,
Remembering how you dive for the drop shots, and placing
My racket head down low, gee you are surprised by topspin
Kicking the ball past your lithe neck, didn’t see that coming.
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