Jouer au Tennis.(Poem)

 
   You get ready 
   for tennis. He knows that. Tennis is different 
   shoes. It's a different dress. It's a white hat with only a front 
   on it, and green under it. He watches his mother. The sun is 
   reaching in the bay window at Cicero Street and puts a square of 
   light and warmth on the edge of the carpet. He can feel it with his 
   fingers. There's a racquet in the back of Mum's wardrobe. It feels 
   heavy when he gets it out because it's in a thing with screws. Mum 
   says: Tim, you can take the racquet out of its press. He doesn't 
   know how. She shows him. She leans close. He can smell her cup of 
   tea. He can smell powder. He unscrews the screws Mum has …