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Topspin

It’s the topspin that’s troublesome
the way the ball hits the net then spikes upward
suspended momentarily
as if awaiting divine intervention
some celestial force
the force Byzantine monks prayed for
to guide their trembling hands
in setting down the words of the Father
before it drops to one side
an intertidal moment
that moment between the high and low tides
when the water recedes
and the flotsam and jetsam
are rudely revealed to weekend
hand-holding beachcombers
who have pined for this getaway
since their last three-day weekend
that they may be rejuvenated sufficiently
to re-center their life
which has been sorely wobbled of late
by the hits of devaluation and decline
and again accept and ride the flux
that has become the everyday
of their existence
the resignation spinned into enlightenment;
this dropping of the ball
to one side of the net
this seemingly innocuous randomness
as powerful really as the call of a line judge
in awarding the point, prompting one
to collect one’s baggage at the turnstile
assume the role of weary traveler
the journey’s detritus highlighting crow’s feet
and face the blur of cabs curbside
each driver festooned with the barnacles
of a life spent underwater
pearls dribbling from their mouths
a half-eaten ham and swiss
moldering on the passenger’s seat
accusatory in its resemblance
of a vinyl mockup by Oldenburg
for those who have left their hearts in San Francisco
and sought renewal
among the high peaks of the Adirondacks
the ADK or ADKs sticker
broadcasting their achievement
from the driver’s side back window
to other motorists fighting
the Friday night retreat northward
to Clifton Park, Saratoga Springs,
Glens Falls, and beyond
their state service security badges
dripping from their rear-view mirrors.

Giant BLT  by Claes Oldenburg