I Miss You...
Like high school tennis practice after classes
at the midpoint of May; so at the peak
of blurry vision owing foggy glasses
owing a humid leak (of which I won’t speak
lest my knees weakly wobble, side to side,
as they did when Coach Notis would tell us
what failed to kill us - when nobody died
or tripped over lines of his murderous
suicide drill - was done incorrectly -
which in turn led me to question this
passion of mine, stern and directly,
returned to me answered configured like this:
Why risk your manhood and furrier balls
for something where love all means nothing at all?).