For John Hibbard (second from left, back row), coach, dad and friend, and John Chase (far right, back row), my own coach and dad, in suburban heaven--tennis courts and cold beer forever.
John & John
The line is violet, gold
in the light, the edge
of a snowdrift, ground glass
lifting in the wind,
settling into a shadowed border.
John crossed over
endlessly grinning,
spirogyra in his head,
tangled in years at a chain-link fence,
encouraging his daughter, her line drive or a drive
down the line. Now he’s gone.
Gone to meet old friends,
another John,
my father.
Are they spinning
through their days
at that fence, drifting
to the tennis court—
their turn to play, to Saturday
doubles, in sweaty whites, moving
across green asphalt,
pale lines shifting—
a yellow ball tossed by a strong hand.
Let them rest now on a wooden bench.
Let them reach warm palms into a bucket
of ice. I hear them popping silver cans.

