Oh, a mere mortal; the hours I spent
on my couch, watching, not watching,
pacing, cleaning, anything to trim
the tension of watching the tennis gods
two bedraggled bodies wracking them-
selves senseless smacking the small ball
to new and giddy places. Mother,
if I had five ounces of that resilience…
Five hours in, sports writers are sick
with praise. Even the clay, even the living dust
is whipped up, spent but glowing,
having witnessed magnificence.