For Althea Gibson
The tennis ball
Whacked over the net
Is whacked back again
Sometimes.
It is a tough leather that ball.
But this respiratory thing
That sucks the air from our lung
Teams against the self to win.
Now you are whacked
Over the line by it,
And to the cotton farm of Carolina,
And none can whack you back
Match point is for it
The ball is gone.
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