Tennis, Anyone? Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

I envy them.
I watch them serve, receive.
The forehand, backspin, smash,
each smacked with care.
Except to rest or
stopping to retrieve,
the volley rhythm
builds between the pair.
Engaging conflict
would be a delight.
I stare and wait.
My racquet arm is sore
from bouncing balls
against my guts
strung tight.
The mystery to me
is how to score.
More couples come.
I shift and scratch.
Pretending my approach,
my slice,
I pray to find a mate and
maybe meet my match.
Hey, I don't have to win.
I need to play.
It's just a game and
I should be a sport.
Guess love means zero
on and off the court.