Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

King Of The Hill

He says he’ll call
but he never does.
He says he was my father’s friend
but that was back when my father still could play tennis
and he had his dink shot.
They would sit and talk
in the plastic chairs
in the sun
by King of the Hill –
The Tennis court people challenged each other on,
where the winner became “king”
till the next challenger obliterated him.
My father used to say he wanted to be buried
under
King of The Hill.
And why not?
He played on it every day.
He owned King of the Hill
and everyone at the club knew it.
The funny little old Jewish man
in his rusty white tennis hat
and torn shorts.
The one Democrat in the club.
The one who always laughed
who ribbed the other stuck-up members.
The one who knew how to play chess.
The one who never took life so seriously.
While others sweated and fired off canon shots
into the net,
my father flipped his little yellow balls on to his opponent’s side
like he was lobbing dollops of whip cream on to a sundae.
He believed one should always do the least amount possible
on and off the court.
“Why put out all that effort?” he would ask,
like a modern day Pooh Bear.
Then he would go in to the clubhouse,
have a cup of coffee
and eat the beef barley soup.
Now,
no one calls him.
He doesn’t play tennis.
And King of The Hill
was bulldozed over
to make way for the new swimming pool.