No tennis rackets or courts nearby we
invented our own with two straw brooms,
a worn yellow ball found in the park
and the edges of a broken sidewalk
along the street to mark the lines
Sweep the ball past the other broom
and the score was one to nothing
Mid morning mom appeared
after hanging the wash to sit
on the porch swing to watch us,
sipping slowly on a mug of black coffee
and humming a tune she sang
as a little girl on her family’s farm
Too soon it was time to set the table
for supper with dad and take turns
carrying the garbage to a tarnished pail
with an dented lid that reeked
of rot and maggots squirming
in their own cycle of life
Day after day we fought over the rules,
who cheated, if the ball stayed in bounds,
the game growing like ourselves
as complicated as the constant storms
of that shortened summer
Defeated by mosquitoes,
tossing in the wet heat without
fans or cooling breezes,
we ached for morning so we could
hurry outside before breakfast
to play one more round