Issue 71, Fall 1977
You never get to play it, the rackets
Are always missing or else the net’s dissolved
During the winter, and there are mole holes
Where they shouldn’t be, wherever that is.
Still, it’s a promise every year, when you see Winter
Dumping its useless, silver mischief on your kerchief.
And the indifferences which have wrecked your life—
Whole aisles of carelessly abandoning boyfriends, lovers
turned oddly awful or litiginous, even close girlfriend betrayal
Escalate like some tremendous terrible temple, turned upside down
O, that sunny redemption
Of the difficulty of dirty days!
Then the Badminton of Great Barrington stands
Like the little sad statue of Christ suffering in the projected
“untasteful” neon pain on your lawn
Never used to.