The chain link fence is six feet tall.

Taller

Than the average man

Smaller than the past tense of youth

Back when sneakers and two good feet

Were all we needed

To climb over and land

On the green concrete.

Inside are the good days

Preserved in fresh paint

And worn rackets

Trimmed grass

Games played beyond nightfall

And a yellow ball

That can't fly over the net anymore

So it follows the wind, keeping within

The white lines of the court.

No one is keeping score

Of what we've won or lost

For we can't count life on our fingers

But on a good day

With some sun, a ball and a couple of mates

We'll skip the shortcut

Pass through the gate

And let the tennis ball fly.