What Am I Doing (Another Attempting At Serving a Sestina, Another Pickle Poem)
You showed me how to swing a pickleball paddle,
smirking like you knew I’d be obsessed.
I thought, “Okay, it’s just a little game,”
but then your grin said otherwise. Oh no.
You taught me how to hit a perfect dink,
and suddenly my heart was in the kitchen.
They said, “Stay out of the kitchen,”
but I followed you in, paddle
clutched tight, trying to master the dink
while pretending I wasn’t completely obsessed.
You served, I whiffed. You laughed. Oh no.
Is it you or the game? Same thing. Same game.
It’s more flirt than sport, this game.
You call me out: “Foot fault! Kitchen!”
I roll my eyes. You wink. Oh no.
I’m flirting back, gripping the paddle
like it’s the last thing I’m not obsessed
with – except, of course, that drop-shot dink.
You’re poetry in motion when you dink.
I’m chaos. Blame the game.
I play like someone half-possessed,
but still I chase you to the kitchen,
holding tight to my dumb little paddle,
hoping you don’t see me sweat. (Oh no…)
Oh yes, I think. (But still: oh no.)
This is more than just a dink.
This is heartbeats pinging off my paddle,
a full-blown rom-com in a game.
It’s not just smashes, it’s the kitchen
conversations I’ve grown obsessed
with. You. It’s you I’m obsessed
with, not just the serve or the “oh no”
backhand saves near the kitchen -
though I’d marry you mid-dink
if this were that kind of game.
(It’s not. Yet.) I grip my paddle.
So yes – I paddle on, obsessed.
A dink, a glance, a playful game.
And hearts collide. Right in the kitchen.