pleats smoothed, I push
the door; Grandma, flour-dust cloud, morning-
coffee kiss--
"Have a good time, Dear,"
...a whisper: "Let him win."
Four years of tennis lessons!
Hour of training daily!
Custom-crafted recquet! Let him win?
Let Him Win?
Grandma cannot know
what fire she kindles.
You saunter Country-Club painted
concrete, spin
your handle, confident -- wavy ginger
hair, dark-brown
eyes, long legs -- like Daddy's
retriever.
Whack! That's for Grandma!
Aced the first serve, easy point -- Whack! That one's
for you!
I let you win knowledge you face
an adversary
who will not
melt, not
lie.
Whack! That's for pleasure!
two inches over the net -- where were you?
Whack! Safisfaction!
I let you win the sight
of legs almost long
as yours, but faster, cover
the court as freckles
cover you, but better.
Whack! That's for honesty!
One-hand backhand rapid
as thought, powerful
as sweat stinging
your eyes.
Whack! That's for women!
Sorry about your thigh, put
ice on it.
Whack! That's to reiterate,
Love means Nothing.
I let you win the lesson,
Practice, not testosterone, makes perfect.
"And did you let him win?"
Kitchen smells of baked
apples and cinnamon. Someday,
Bulldog tennis-players
well be champions, thanks to Georgia girls
who will not let them win.
"Grandma, he won more
than he expected."
(c)Patsy Anne Bickerstaff 2009
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