Tennis at Twilight
At 8:15, it still feels like daytime
The ball is where it is, fluorescent green,
though my arm's sore from typing all day
and I think about dinner.
I have dreams of winning, swiftly and publicly.
At 8:30, I swallow a mosquito,
wasting the fading daylight with coughing
and little flailing comments, about tennis in a swamp.
My wrist is unsure, and the sound of children on swings
distracts -- the ball drops again and again into the net.
At 8:45, the light begins to bend
The ball is at times in two places
It is too small, a shadow, it disappears over the fence.
Even as we play with full focus, the expression is imprecise:
As the light goes, it takes away our realism.
At 9:00, it is nighttime, and we are playing alone.
There is a big moon, almost full, behind your head
It gives enough light for poetry, but not for tennis.
We still play -- hard, by instinct, but chasing no ball.
We cannot see ourselves at work in the darkness, glistening.
* * * * * *
Suggestions? Feedback? Likes, dislikes?
Please be a bit gentle. This is the first time I'm putting up a poem...