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Joanne Seltzer
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My Father the Tennis Player
Sammy met Ethel
on the Belle Isle courts
during happy days
now remembered as
the roaring twenties.
When their game began
to get serious
she aimed for the net,
connected with the air,
sought the score of love.
He complained, told her
tennis is about
the stroke not the spin.
After that she won
almost every set
while he lost proudly.
And they married.
And they were happy.
And I came along.
And they rejoiced.
And the jealous gods
soon took him away.
He turned into words
written on stone, grass
enhanced by flowers,
metaphoric youth
associated
forever with clay.
