Roger Federer (surprise surprise!) won Wimbledon. I confess to have been rooting for Andy Murray (so the Brits could at last get the title.) Still, congrats to Federer – it is impossible not to admire his nimble grace and iron composure.
Wimbledon is, of course, played on grass, where Federer excels. Historically, however, he has not been such a winning machine when he plays on clay, particularly on the bright orange surfaces of the French Open. Here’s a freshly revised poem, written during one of those French Opens.
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Would-be Poet
I, who must be purposeful at every minute,
even when lying in bed on a Sunday morning, call to ask you, miles away,
for a prompt, something to write about, something
outside of myself.
You are watching tennis. You’ve taken the phone into
the TV room, but, far
from its home cradle, it emits a steady cackle.
Earlier, you left the TV, but this is
my second call of the morning, and Federer, the champion for umpteen
seasons, is being trounced.
As the silence on your end
of the line extends (but for
the crackling), my mind’s eye
sees your legs–you wear tennis
shorts for the event–they bounce
from heel to thigh, not with impatience, but
compressed excitement, so that your
hips barely rest upon the edge of
that bed (so very far
from mine); I imagine
your face too, gaze glazed
with the brilliant orange
of the beamed clay surface.
I want to shout
over the static: But Federer is never his best
on clay! Don’t you
know that already? Doesn’t
the world?
Instead I whine something
about really needing
a prompt, and you, squeezing words from
the small bits of brain
not glued to the brilliant screen, say, um…
how about…’photosynthesis’?
You are not a poet; you don’t pretend to be a poet; why
do I even ask you, a non-poet, for such help?
I groan.
Wait, you interject, with renewed
vigor (someone’s just made
their serve), how about ‘love
and photosynthesis’?
I groan again.
‘Asparagus’ then, you laugh,
making some distracted
but cheerfully inane
remark about how
it’s like your love for me, endlessly growing.
While I, who must be purposeful
at every moment, turn green, so jealous
of the TV that grips you, of
the clay, the ball, even the frustrated
Federer, that uncaringly
hold you so close–but mostly
of you yourself, your ability to just sit there
and watch,
guiltlessly, lovingly, full
of bright orange beams.
*************************************
Posted also for dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night.
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