Second Serves

Falling Forehand

A gliding, sliding riding band
Of a fluorescent yellow Wilson brand
Whirled and swirled with a cement curved rubber line strand
As I scurried and hurried and worried to smack it before it should land


Playing Portrait of Pity

There used to be a place I’d go
When feeling down and low
It’s distinguished cracks and smooth surface
Served a soothing, sheltered purpose
The raised nets and clearly marked boundaries
Listened to my lonely pleas
The way the service box could be my disguise
Was an acceptable answer to my cries
The repetitive bouncing and tossing of which
Turned on my saddened soul’s switch
Meager and humble I overcame denial
Hitting an ace made life again seem worthwhile
Even though I felt you approaching in stride
My drop shot and hidden hurt remained inside
It’s taken me a while to figure you out
But I’m going to do so with clarity and clout
I return to my home on the darkest days
And deliver my serve where this unharmed child still plays