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His Racquet

He’s a tennis guru who plays
Ping pong on the side.
I pose with his snowshoe like a
Katana-wielding samurai.
“You like racquet sports, huh?”
And I aim my weapon at his head.
His vacillating eyes spew panic,
Terrified, should I damage his
$200 prized Wilson,
So I gently set my sword down
And plant a quick peck on his cheeks.

I am his racquet,
A feeble extension of his arms,
Coated with face paint and perfume,
Senselessly waiting to be replaced.



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