At the Net

(For the "sudden" poetry prompt at Writer's Digest.)

After the first serve I rush
the net, attack like a tiger already

pouncing on prey. My graphite racquet
raised at the ready, I punch each volley

and make her run, sideline to sideline
until, instead of a curving forehand

trying to pass me down the line, she tries
a short lob. Grinning, I turn, confident

with an impending overhead bullet
but hear the pop of my ankle, rolled over,

and I roll in no-man’s land holding
an ankle already starting to swell.