The Tennis Player Waits for What Waits for the Tennis Player

In the slippery swelter of asphalt,

in a blistering backhand return,

you wait every June, every August

for that stabbing of fate in the elbow,

that first sharp knifing of fact;

and because it comes with a certain

smug angle of the sun,

and because it comes with a bird

turning transparent as truth,

and because it comes with a cry

like preaching in the wind—

you know you are becoming

one of the pure, pale

Others; and you call back

all the grubby friends

of childhood, and command them

to surround your skin with singing.