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Deuce
January 14, 2009
My eyes are the dry lines of a tennis court
Which show no mercy
When choosing the winner.
My ears are nothing more
Than the sound of a tennis ball;
Crisply bouncing off the clay.
My deft hands are the strings;
Effortlessly whisking away
Every ball I meet.
My body is the net
Permitting nothing
Through my barriers.
My heart is the witness
Of the years
Of broken racquets,
Of broken spirits.
But perhaps I was once the player,
Who had seen the lines,
Heard the ball,
Overcome the net,
And become the racquet?
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This article has 2 comments.
Joe said...
on Apr. 25 2009 at 9:13 pm
This poem is incredible! I really like the idea of the extended metaphor. Great job!
Rebecca said...
on Feb. 9 2009 at 2:04 am
Love this poem, it really gives the great things of tennis human characteristics.
