Two morose giants
battle it out.
Potro has slightly nervous
eyes
And a small serious mouth.
He plays like a cannon.
Federa looks like some
merchandise of himself
but he plays like a
genetically engineered
storm.
They fight calmly,
toing and froing
in an arduous geological
process
that somehow retains
equilibrium.
I must go out. I’ll just wait
for two more games, and
then I’ll go.
An hour later, and the bank
is going to close.
I leave.
I can remember,
I’ll say to my grand kids,
When this match began.
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