revision

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. 

Game of Angles

Racquetball

Years after giving up the game

for good I dream of turning

up late to a match juggling

my 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, square

portholes slashing avocado

carpet with watery cross ties,

florescent flickers that merge and pool,

flushing me into flat light within

a white cube to toe the red

service line once again only to find

my forehand serve impeded

by a jumble of tables,

five drawer files and armoires,

packing crates, roll top desks and bureaus

arranged into the crooked lane plat of medieval Bruges. 

Racquetball,

a game of angles

gone sadly out of fashion,

is the MacGuffin in my dream

as it was in my playing days

when you were always the real opponent,

King of Center Court

running me, stroking passing shots

while I dove heedless, headlong into walls,

losing on points, nursing my trophy of bruises. 

revise, revise

On Turning Sixty-One

Fitzgerald’s last line;

longing, lovingly

rendered in fourteen

words, ode

to inevitability

in any tongue.

“So we beat on”,

aching,

“boats against the current”,

 our urgent

she bu de!,

she bu de!/

I can’t bear

to let go!,

“borne back”

on music

in the Latin,

de mihi tempus/

give me more

time. 

Songs echo

“ceaselessly into the past.”

Birthday poem

On Turning Sixty-One

Fitzgerald’s last line,

longing rendered in

fourteen words, ode to

inevitability uttered

in any tongue. “So we beat

on” aching,

“boats against the current”

 our urgent

she bu de!, she bu de!/

I can’t bear

           

to let go!, “borne back”

by music

in the Latin,

de mihi tempus/

give me more

time, echoing

“ceaselessly

into the past.”