Out Like a Lamb

Another Folly

Your serves are slams across pervasive nets;
I see no way to act, too slow to volley.
So there goes love and love, again, I guess
And none to blame but me, another folly.

I call fault, you storm across the court
while out-of-bounds, your racket hits the ref
what once was partnership, a spoiled sport;
where once we shared exchanges, you are deaf.

I'm left alone to play a game for two
No strategy to plan, no way to force it
And no one, now, remembers me and you;
My only move's to walk away and forfeit.

note ▼

April 5—Get a sport into a poem!