I slice.
It is art
my backhand
against the practice wall
a mural
at a public court
green boards
hanging
on chain link
latex
on plywood.
My tennis is an illusion
there is a white line smeared all the way across the wall as if Picasso were the city worker
who
distorted me
it’s not even
really a net
there are no poles
it is held up only in the abstract
on a day.
Nothing
really ends
with a Pablo line smeared across a green wall composition
there is no real over just
shot
shot
a cruel thudding
a percussion you can interpret for miles.
The deuce guys playing next to me aren’t real good
they are arms with crane feet swatting at bees
on a court with a meridian net stretched out sideways, winched up high
reckoning their sides
they keep score
as time zones
crossed
in.
They can pause and marvel as I slice it back-
hand low and spinning
again and again
a yellow tennis ball
skidding
smack
dab.
My time spins backward as far as it will unroll
snapping tight at a beginning
that doesn’t hang between anything as simple as days
or points
all that can be over
and beyond the long lines.
It is how I am here
alone
repetitively sad
among you
knees bent
brushed
onto the scaly, green surface of existence
up close
just
splats
of
epidermis
on a good-looking afternoon
for tennis.
I slice.
Ken Been
Ken Been’s poetry has been published or is forthcoming in numerous journals and anthologies. A sampling includes LIT Magazine, The Argyle Poetry Review, Stone Poetry Quarterly, October Hill Magazine, Arlington Literary Journal, The Headlight Review, Plainsongs, Poetica Magazine and Remembering Lawrence Ferlinghetti. He is from Detroit, which – in a quirk of geography – is north of its border with Canada.