Champions
Crooked fingers notwithstanding,
Gripping that racket as if life depends upon it,
These oldsters seem intent
On keeping this up
‘Till the streets freeze, or rains come down,
Or the dark makes it impossible to see,
Flexing legs, bending backs, a maze of twisting torsos,
Bare arms batting balls
Against back-boards or at each other,
Grinning, half-toothed, when the mark
Is accurate, foot-stomping-mad
When it misses.
Champions we are, we admit,
Only amongst each other,
But better, oh, so much better,
To go to that tennis court up there in the sky
From this bouncy venue,
Struck down, perhaps, by some infernal lightning
While moving, still moving, in the midst of this eclectic activity,
Than dribble away one’s spirit, one’s life,
From the immobilizing softness of a mattress,
Or fixed, pinned like a butterfly, to an armchair,
In the mesmeric screen-bound-glare of TV.