In a darkened room
with a single bulb hanging above,
we positioned ourselves at
either end of the green table,
legs bent, paddles ready.
Armed with a paddle in each hand,
he loomed large, a towering figure
well over six and half feet
whose physical appearance
well dwarfed my own.
“Two out three?” he suggested.
“We can play as long as you’re able.”
“I don’t know how much strength I have.”
“Just try your best. Your serve.”
I spun a serve to his backhand
and the rally was on.
The ball went back and forth
across the white net in the middle.
“Do you like poetry?” he asked.
“Some,” I said.
“Do you know the line,
‘Because I could not stop for death?'”
“Why?”
“Just askin’.”
The rally continued, back and forth.
“Are you playing your best?” he asked
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder. You seem to be losing steam.”
“I used to play better when I was younger.”
“We all did.”
The light began to flicker.
He caught my ball and whipped
a cross-court backhand
for a winner.
“Is it time to go?” I asked.
“Yes, I believe it is.
The game is over, I’m afraid.
but I must say you played
as long as you could,
valiantly, I might add. Good job.”