Two sets down, groin injury treated mid-match, swearing,
in what he hoped was an unknown language
but didn’t end up being because a multilingual ball person
picked it up and dobbed him in to the ref
causing interrogation and further disgruntlement,
Roger is about to serve again to his lower ranked opponent
when suddenly he is stilled.
A feather
floats
in his gaze
almost as if he has willed it into being.
First the hollow shaft, the calamus,
dips,
then pops up,
allowing the top end of the rachis
to take its playful downward turn
and on
and down
like a tiny skiff in a dancing sea
until it settles on the blue court.
Roger’s eyes have followed it all the way
to its soft, silent landing.
Now he steps over the baseline,
drops to one knee,
picks up the feather between thumb and forefinger,
and deposits it behind the playing area.
The ref allows the delay.
His opponent fumes.
That’s all it takes.
He wins his service game,
calmly returns anything sent his way thereafter,
and accepts the match,
does Roger Featherer.
bw
########################################################################
To unsubscribe from the POETRYETC list, click the following link:
https://www.jiscmail.ac.uk/cgi-bin/webadmin?SUBED1=POETRYETC&A=1
|