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 stacked furniture and packing
crates arranged into a crooked lane
plat of a miniature medieval
Bruges.
Racquetball,
a game of angles gone
sadly out of fashion,
the MacGuffin in my dreams
and my playing days when you
were my true opponent.
Never one
for racquet sports, you ran me
stroking passing shots, methodical
while I hurled myself heedless
headlong into walls, losing on points,
nursing trophies of bruises.
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