Memory's Theater (2)

I take the stage in white shorts with white slit pockets cut for a boy
White shirt and tennis shoes and a wrist band that sucked the blue out
of a sheet in the wash to become sickly blotched, socks dyed to match.  





We’ve entered tournaments now, and I wait on the steps  for Linda’s car to start
In the stillness of 5am, I can hear the engine score from a block away
Linda will be watchful nerves, jittery in the back seat, bugged by my silliness

But I am all serve and volley now, all force and charge, scoop and hold.
I am coached, practiced, and powerless to counter the disciplined opponent
who will lob the ball over my head and hold steady on the baseline.

I will draw the first or second seed in Philly and lose, but I don’t seem to care.
Linda is ranked. She will advance. Her backseat jitters will give way to calm when she
steps on the court. That’s when my heart will race. My first 2 returns will ping the lights.  

I have a two-handed backhand because Chrissy Evert does.  I twist my right
hand back and forth to shuffle imaginary bracelets then toss and re-toss, like her.
I stretch high to serve then pitch forward with everything - like a weed in the wind.