Tennis Anyone?

by Glen Martin Fitch

I envy them.
I watch them serve, receive.
The forehand, backspin, smash,
each smacked with care.
Except to rest or
stopping to retrieve,
the volley rhythm
builds between the pair.
Engaging conflict
would be a delight.
I stare and wait.
My racquet arm is sore
from bouncing balls
against my guts
strung tight.
The mystery to me
is how to score.
More couples come.
I shift and scratch.
Pretending my approach,
my slice,
I pray to find a mate and
maybe meet my match.
Hey, I don't have to win.
I need to play.
It's just a game and
I should be a sport.
Guess love means zero
on and off the court.


Glen Martin Fitch's picture

Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."

Last updated August 23, 2011