Like you, my body aches, without moving my mallet.
Obsessed with swing, gone still in Toronto’s winter,
it gathers dusty cobwebs, from an improvised hook,
in the upper lefthand corner of the garage.
Parking my Subaru, I look up,
see it listlessly hanging impotently.
We share a sadness, a powerlessness,
as my forlorn gaze turns away,
to carefully crunch over grey, brown snow,
on my way to the front door.
I feel empty,
but for a bag of milk, eggs, and unsliced oatmeal artisan bread.
However, one day, desperate,
Mike and I lowered our mallets to bash balls in his frozen backyard court.
We giggled as they bounced over winter’s linoleum-like sward.
Every shot a jump shot, only slowed, in their tumble,
by sticky snow, looking like the beginnings of a snowman, too wide for the wicket.
One game each. Too cold to play the rubber. Can’t wait for Spring.
|