Bang pop slice — the serve is good,
the ball comes back before I've blinked.
I lunge, I miss, I blame the wind,
the way one does when skill has shrunk.
Crack pop bang — I clip the line,
or near enough to make my claim.
My partner grins and lets it slide,
we're here to move, not keep the score.
Oops, too close! The net betrays me.
Ah well — the sun is out, the court is green,
and someone brought those orange slices
we pretend are just for kids.
Game point. Crack. It lands. We win!
Paddle tap, snap snap — good game, good game.
We switch sides, catch our breath,
and do the whole damn thing again.
Twenty-one to nineteen, or was it less?
Who cares — we're vertical and blessed.