Racquetball
Years after giving up the game
for good I still dream of turning
up late to a match juggling
a chipped red racquet,
high-impact lenses,
salt tanned right hand
glove and two
blue balls fresh in the can,
my dream court receding
down darkened halls,
a warren of identical doors,
portholes slashing avocado
carpet with watery cross ties,
florescent flickers that merge and pool,
flushing me into flat light within
a stark white cube to toe the red
service line once again
only to find my forehand
serve impeded by jumbled
tables, five drawer files, armoires, roll top desks
and bureaus
arranged into the crooked lane plat of medieval
Bruges.
Racquetball,
a game of angles
gone sadly out of fashion,
the MacGuffin in my dreams,
as it was in my playing days
when you were my true opponent,
King of Center Court running me,
stroking passing shots, methodical
while I hurled myself heedless
headlong into walls, losing on points,
nursing trophies of bruises.
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