Serves

Blinding sun

A grip, hard and dirty; I squeeze it tightly

I throw the green ball in the air; soars, spins, floats

A slow decent

And I wait, my weight is on my left foot

I spring, my weight shifts

The racket slices through the air like a knife, but the ball is out

I made a mistake; “rage” was not facing me

I repeat my process, turning my racket

Slam the ball, it soars upward; it is too high

It goes in anyway