You! Yes, you, small boy,
small for your age and made to look smaller
by the tennis racket you’re brandishing.
with its gluey gut strings gone frayed and slack,
it strains and pains your immature wrist.
Yet by degrees you are mastering the knack:
whacking that bald, almost unbouncing ball
again and again against a gable-end wall.
One of the walls the war has left.
You’re back in the black-and-white nineteen-fifties.
You represent survival, pluck, and making-do.
Returning a serve, you’re your own opponent,
deliciously lost in the first excitement
of muddling personal pronouns.