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Dave Hardin
Poems
Apr 2017
Racquetball
Years after giving up the game
for good I dream of turning
up late to a match juggling
my chipped red racquet,
high-impact lenses,
salt tanned right hand
glove and two
blue ***** fresh in the can,
my dream court receding
down darkened halls,
a warren of identical doors, square
portholes slashing avocado
carpet with watery cross ties,
florescent flickers that merge and pool,
flushing me into flat light within
a white cube to toe the red
service line once again only to find
my forehand serve impeded
by a jumble of tables,
five drawer files and armoires,
packing crates, roll top desks and bureaus
arranged into the crooked lane plat of medieval Bruges.
Racquetball,
a game of angles
gone sadly out of fashion,
is the MacGuffin in my dream
as it was in my playing days
when you were always the real opponent,
King of Center Court
running me, stroking passing shots
while I dove heedless, headlong into walls,
losing on points, nursing my trophy of bruises.
Written by
Dave Hardin
Michigan
(Michigan)
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