Who’s for Tennis?

I.

Who does he think he is; that little old man
with parchment skin and creviced cheeks like walnuts?
He stares as though inviting me to speak,
but curtained eyes betray no sign of life.

Above his stringy neck like Christmas turkey,
the jowls sag, the wispy hair surrounds
a bony skull. I picture yellow teeth
behind the ragged salt-and-pepper tash.

Reflecting that I never wish to know
that man nor hear his doubtless tragic tale
I smile, to mask disgust and guilt. Then sad
and shaken turn the mirror to the wall.

II.

To shave, I must confront that wrecked old man
once more. I face him now, and all is changed!
The eyes sparkle, the image comes alive.
I swear it’s more than a trick of light and water.

A leisurely breakfast shared began the magic;
watching the day grow bright, the starlings fight,
chaffinches and the green and gold, and blue
tits feeding. Then our daughter rang to chat.

Content, I played the choir’s first CD,
and then some tunes on my sweet low Irish whistle.
Reviewing now that picture from the attic,
I recognize and welcome the old man.

III.

My twin and I were born six weeks too soon.
While her lament was heard for just nine days
my song went on for more than eighty years,
and still to come, sung well or ill, the coda.

Our lives, an unsolicited gift, or loan
on terms to be announced, are driven by chance
and shaped by circumstance, like life itself;
evolving through the alchemy of time.

No need for gods to juggle with the odds,
our conscious selves emerged, like crust on bread.
This faith has served me well. I too have thrown
the dice, and made my moves, and sometimes won.

Now who’s for tennis? Love all! Rally! Brake
the coda’s slow descent towards its final fall.