June seventh
three o'clock
booming
Philippe Chatrier Court
She struggled through throngs of people
two months ago
spitted
like the drizzle
from above,
indifferent
to her
faithful protest.

Months of sweat
swallowing every drip of injustice
work
and meagre paychecks
mounted
to more abuse.

Am I meant to be here?
she doubts.
Is he too great for me?
she questions
until the king
breaks the serve
on the court
covered in blood
drained
thirsty
for the cup.

Perhaps
the ants
sneer
point and laugh
from galleries
at them
who arrogantly name themselves the
most intelligent animal;
her heart tangles
a maze
a mystery of fireworks
more brilliant
spectacular
than the boss
the mighty women
can ever rob off Roger Federer.