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.