Why I Love Men's Tennis (abbreviated)

There is no team in I. 
Love comes in interludes of 15, just like fame.
You are silent, but for a few grunts and moans.
You sweat, and wipe, and run for cover;
how to connect your gut, the courage- thought process betraying you and making promises
as the sun moves across your view.
You act upon the impetus, or does it
send sacrifice in droves to you,
silence and more buzzing around your brain, 
if they flipped a switch what would they hear from inside - 
marching bands, your father forcing you to be brave,
your obsession talking to your sinews - right and left brain
duking it out, repeatedly - a thousand page book written behind the eyes
over the course of love, nothing to the inevitable last microsecond.
It's just us out there.  Nobody else can hear---
the tick tock thumps of your heart dropping like flies
around your feet.  While they cannot help, but
watch you, every colour of the rainbow giving way. 
Drive that animal home, break open the other guy's chest,
bed her straight to centre court between her legs,
counted out and in, drought feast and famine
in a splinter of sun - arcing your face and the cold sweat
on the back of your neck.
You are the team, the warlord and the prize.
Make the ride a good one, and let the breezes 
of all who oppose you garner favour in the folds of your hair,
held back.

M. Lucia