By the time he came along
the old tennis court
had became a place where
weeds ignored the lines
that marked the out-of-bounds.


He was intrigued by its flatness.
Between two poles
a deteriorating net hung limp,
once made taut by a winder
that intrigued a little boy just learning
that time changes things.


The court, years before, had been
a place of great delight
(so he heard from old relatives).
When he began to take an interest
it had been abandoned.


He played around in the old court
and even had a tennis ball or two
he hit around with an old racket.
But no one was there to teach him
and that is what he wanted
but did not know how to ask for.


The memory still surfaces sometimes
and the weeds are still growing.




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