And the Time Is: Poems, 1958-2013

Deuce

287 Deuce A game long favored by the kings of France has made us learn its lingo. Racquet instead of racket—love, derived supposedly from l’oeuf since eggs resembled zeroes, for zero— deuce for dieux since victory from deuce demands two points awarded in succession. Although no player is ahead at love or deuce, a tie at deuce, which can repeat itself until the match is won, offers more drama. Errors at love can be redeemed because the game is far from over. A faulty passage early in an epic wounds but does not kill. Errors at deuce are unforgiving. A rhyme that calls undue attention to itself assassinates a poem. This poem is a case in point. The most I’ve done so far is serve and volley. As long as I can volley, matchpoint 288 will stay two services away. Forcing a shot to win or lose would make the final score the only reason for the game. What happens if I pause right here and let the poem stay at deuce? Unfinished symphonies have fared as well in music history as finished ones. Better to leave the job uncertain as a lob at the top of its loft than risk an ace and miss. For those to whom finality is all that matters, I offer the option of permanent deuce. Stroke by stroke the game will just go on and on, the clocks will stay irrelevant, two players in their prime will prove that tennis is the art of poetry and prowess in progress, and what might seem to some a waste of energy and time will last forever in the perpetuity of deuce. ...