Watching Them Play On Clay Poem by Diane Elayne Dees

This is not the tennis you learned in school
in New York, California or Wisconsin.
This is dirty. Socks turn red, feet slide
like sandpaper on the smoothest pine
surface. The thwack of clay knocked
out of shoe soles, the tiny bits of brick
that stick to sweaty thighs, quivering
ever so slightly as muscles twitch-
and then the wait. The long wait.
No first strike here, but rather, patience,
as minutes seem to swirl past while the yellow
departs the red, and spins toward the white.
There is art in the slice, grace in the grind.
Thinking is required. And stretching, bending,
beholding the big picture in fluid angles.
The rain can fall, the game goes on,
the court a wash of cinnabar.
This is not the tennis you learned in school;
this is dirty and beautiful.