Poem Partly Composed While Half-Watching Wimbledon

[Image source: Reuters]

You are prone to good streaks when you let the racquet do the work,
prone to a landscape of secret suffering in other languages,
followed by bird wit and eucalyptus.  Your youth and stoicism
the best kind of wasted youth, everyone on the edge of their seats
to see if you remember what comes next.  Now it's all, "Have I
made the finals?  Is this really the game?  What is the salary
of the ticket-taker on the commuter train?  Who is she later
at home when she takes off that hat?"  You've glided through
on your metaphorical Raleigh bike, unaware of the forces
surrounding you, keeping you upright.  Getting to the finals
is encouragement enough.  Beginning to feel your dark night
of the soul is a bit silly is encouragement enough.  You can
make up a new game in the middle of their game.  Call it
"art."  You're all jacks and sack cloth.  You're a fighter.
Your'e a doll.