Good Tennis

I’m not ready to write about my
overflowing
heart,
and what is dripping
to the side
then splatter splattering
to the beat,
a flick a flickering
a choke, then lurking,
a numb, a numbing
and with a sigh,
departing.

I can only use my mouth,
my tongue,
and what escapes gets
batted
back,
a mightful forearm,
a net newly twined,
daily twined,
a one way net to catch
my mouth’s
intrusion,
which
returns to me swiftly
as a twisted version
of my
sighful splatter:

my made up words,
for meaning,
for rhythm,
return to me swiftly
with a rolled-eye grunt,
bashing me back,
with a sneering sigh,
for the sake of
protected
isolation.

Bruce V. Baron
Seeker
9/2/03