Tennis with Olivia's powder-room janitoress.
She aces me, maces me when I drop Pinnochio shorts
Past knee-high tartans, baby boots, on sizzling asphalt.
Away, roisterers of mocking tinderbox guffaws
In sunny bleachers. Channelling the Holy Goat,
I put my ad in, and forfeit love behind the chalk line.
This racket comes undone, meshed form once nylon bars
Stringing along the easy, too-many sighers
Of sired schlock shaking heads slowly at the ball’s fling.
Umpires of doom, atheistic athletes. Stenographers
Of verse off court, net cinched by a modern winch,
Cleaning lady behind the diamonded grating.
I flee the blacktop and note every farm border post
Stapleshot with beryllium-protected photos
Of my backside (backhanded drakes!), alerting
The innocent. Tell me, servers of legerdemain,
When the score resets to zero. I’ll lick frost
From my opus, flood the empty stadium with paper.
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