I will not shake her hand;

Surely you understand?

My people, every day,

Will shake the hand of death.

Her kinsmen’s uncouth plan

Inflicts its pain and hurt

Across my native land,

Where bodies lie in dirt

Days after their last breath.

I was told I must play;

She is allowed to stand

And face me at the net.

It’s not her fault, and yet

I will not shake her hand.

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Standing your turf
wielding a giant pen.

Power serving words,
determined to win. 

Into the net,
foot-faulted
out of bounds,
disqualified.

Will you be the 
pinnacle of calm
or pull a McEnroe? 

Steady your pace
or steamroll every 
opponent you face?

Time tames 
the temper
as many 
professionals
know. 

Love,
match point,
grow. 
 

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Sitting in this chair I see you,

Tension stretching every nerve.

My life’s tea would be much sweeter

With you there, “Miss Mills to serve.”

I remember other summers.

Football king meets tennis queen:

At first sight I lost my heart

To you, Miss Mills, at just “Fifteen, love.”

Playing,...

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