Tennis

She plays tennis every week with him –

wouldn’t miss it for the world –

she delicately drops, and serves like a lady

in long skirts, never perspiring,

barely a pant at the end of a generous rally.

He loves her.

His skill enables him to take his eye off the ball

until the critical moment, 
luxuriating in the sight of her;

by contrast, she fixes doggedly on the ball,
refuses refreshment, eager for every minute, every point.

It hurts him so.

His weekly loyalty amazes her –

after all, it’s hardly a fair match;

this knowledge pricks a little,

yet during long sets she can pretend

they’re equal, with everything to play for.

He knows he’ll never win.