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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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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