The Tennis Ball by Sophia Meyer-Greene
I had taken a walk in the park that invigorating day in early January.
I passed the tennis courts which were empty.
Dried leaves scattered here and there.
Bunches near the lower edges of the fencing
clung together like aging lovers.
Then I saw it.
The green tennis ball rolling
slowly back and forth with the breeze.
It was near midcourt but definitely
on one side of the net.
It had been left there by someone
not in the game.
A spirited man came briskly walking by
with his red dog.
He smiled and tipped his hat.
European I bet.
“Is that an Irish Setter?” I asked.
“Indeed, he is. He keeps me moving.
Do you play tennis?” he asked.
“Not so much anymore.
Sometimes.”
I answered as he passed.
“Happy New Year,” he said
as he walked toward the exit gate.
“O and the same to you.”
I called out as he strolled
out of the park . . .
Whistling a happy tune.