The neighbors all look like former tennis pros.
Starched smile and silence, they eye each other
through the cage of the lattice. Low-clipped grass,
they stomp on silhouettes, designer dogs
on leashes hanging from their hands like racquets.
The streetlights are little suns volleyed into the air.
Houses built into hills on the cul-de-sac, the neighborhood
is a stadium of sadness. Bay windows become box seats.
Drill, drop shot, slice chip. His strong backhand slices at her.
The crowd turns their heads away in unison.
I'm the little girl crouched down
in the shadow of the net.
Racket by Amy Ash | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$20.00Price
