Tennis with Dad 1974

As if:
my hand was made of concrete
I was your scalpel
you were fragile
I was Bjorn Borg
your pain never came
my forehand volley was bad
I was never there
you were made of glass
I was a blowtorch
your tongue melted
my memory was real
I intended to kill you
you crawled to the alter
I was Bjorn Borg
your life was a game
my days were sleep
I had ever grown up
you were a scalpel
I was made of flesh
your body was immortal

As if:
I was Bjorn Borg
the moment was televised
to my whole family
when in black and white
you died playing with me
I wasn’t and it wasn’t true
that you were ripe
and split open for me
and like a time-bomb
exploded two days later

I was Bjorn Borg
and had never won a match
I was assassinated on the court
before you were dead
and left these concrete hands
as a legacy trapped at home
I wasn’t the same age now
as the surgeon laying down
or you were left a widower
and tennis had never existed
and you never let me win

I’m an old child caught netless
with nails in his birth certificate
refusing to argue the bad call
I was Bjorn Borg
and no one knew me