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The Tennis Courts at Stuyvesant Town

Before, there was a longing—pock—

conjured by lack or hope,

and the ball sailed out to the day’s landscape,

came back as sharpened senses, bluer views.

But here in Stuyvesant Town

the tennis courts are real,

real too (my memoir: from crossed stars

to crossed fingers?) this sturdy hand I grip.

And I, for far too long

for comfort having found warped comfort

in the sports coach-cinematographer

ruling my brain, I roam with you

like an alien in a new world,

con the part clumsily;

if I must succumb to metaphor

let me see the net and asphalt

as an enduring endeavor

of sweat, botched serves and ever-better volleys,

and always the ball going back and forth in sunlight.

At forty I am learning to play tennis.

from Silver RosesFind it in the library

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Published in Poems Rachel Wetzsteon

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