Author’s Note of Almost Apology (September 2015)

I question along with the rest of you the point of publishing a poem written six years ago about a then-contemporaneous tennis tournament, but old man Federer is back in the men’s final as if to helpfully illustrate that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Some things are timeless. Like tennis metaphors. Are timeless.

us, open (September 2009)

The US Open reminds me of what I’ve lost and gained and lost in a year,
and I wouldn’t so much care
if the gains didn’t feel so temporary,
losses so permanent.

She’s hesitant, and I don’t blame her;
she hasn’t talked tennis since Wimbledon,
and my praise of Oudin or Isner sparks no discussion.
She is deaf to feel-good stories and blind to new contenders
even though
we are the feel-good story of September.
We have risen from lows to claim crowns, trophies,
but who hasn’t recently?
Everyone is lonely.
Like-minded individuals will continue to collide
in unlikely places
with all the usual parts.

Last year’s cast of characters was the same,
their seedings more straightforward.
Uncertainty prevailed, but benignly,
diagnosed incorrectly; conceal dismay
behind forced smiles, and pray
for relief to infuse
our meticulously arranged expressions.
But try as we might,
we have been rendered incapable of deception.

We have risen from lows and have ground left to cover.
Losing lovers is basic arithmetic.
Regaining faith in a notion is a vague and nebulous problem
with a vague and nebulous solution…
…probably.
Hopefully.
I am ever the aw-shucks optimist.
I demonstrate my understanding of the game by my willful ignorance to its rules and history.

Last year’s story of redemption was this year’s defending champion;
we change our clothes and play the roles that best match our hats or dresses –
silk hugs her slender form;
uncertainty is bliss.
The sure thing has never been sure and has taken me nowhere.
I will play the long odds with you, the low-percentage shots.
I will take no second serves.
We will win big or…we will not discuss alternatives. In tennis,
it is no coincidence that “love” and “nothing” are synonymous,
or maybe it is.
I make no claims at precognition, sagacity,
did not predict a Del Potro victory,
but also
did not reject, outright, the possibility.