Tennis Tournament
I can’t remember when
this game became war.
My palms started flooding with sweat,
the butterflies in my stomach grew
carnivorous on my ribs.
Conscripted into competition in faraway lands
and searing heat that shimmered haze onto concrete,
I’d gaze across the battle lines
towards an equally bewildered soldier.
My commanders urged me to fight for the win
because the win means points
and the points mean ranking
and the ranking means something.
I destroy him, crush him
like a machine, no matter
how many tears or tantrums I beat
out of him.
If I’m not the victor,
then I’m a casualty.
I will survive the next and the next
to hoist some plastic that says I never lost.