Strawberry Noses and Apricot Midriffs

It began one 80s summer,

when America still played tennis,

when Andre Agassi girls

from rainy places in Oregon

took cheap tennis lessons

coached by Bjorn Borg men.

These girls would walk, jog, bicycle

to public courts,

never a tennis center or country club,

never a ride from mom or dad,

wearing red nylon shorts,

white t-shirts with psychedelic logos,

not a frilly tennis dress in sight,

wielding castoff rackets,

made from ash and maple,

carrying thermoses of ice tea, lemonade, (maybe vodka),

pay 32 dollars for 28 lessons,

frame forehands,

butcher backhands,

miss volleys,

whiff overhead smashes,

run side to side,

across bumpy concrete courts,

(now all vanished)

learn that “let” was a noun,

announce “love” and “love-forty”

serve in the sunshine, serve here, there, usually everywhere,

earning strawberry noses and apricot midriffs,

dreaming to meet boys

who would watch them sweat

and smile when she ripped a winner past him.