TR #4: In the Bleak Mid-Winter
Under winter's length and reach,
sultry elegance exists in a long line
of woven nets, doubly enforced beneath
a straight white mistress who I've seen
kissed and cursed as the fate of a point,
set, or match hung suspended on her
fickle whims, how the topspin felt
whipped up against her lacy cords.
Drawn unawares to drawn green squares
outlined in baselines and alleys.
Opposed to gym floors with their sliding
bounces, awkward skids and balls rolling
out the door; this ground is dedicated
to opposing players in Prince and Nike
meeting and flipping green and red scorecards,
not turning volleyball nets upside down.
Longingly I gaze through the glass,
watch the arc of odd-looking high schoolers'
strokes bounce oddly off the concrete blocks,
yards away from intended location.
On this occasion, I would lace up old
Wilsons and pull out short socks,
but this passion ignited is smothered in me
for 22 dollars an hour is the freaking fee!
The white mistress was a great metaphor for the tape. Nice poem, but from now on stick to tennis beyond knowledge.
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