The secret to being loving is to say everything.
Just below my spot on the balcony
a few of the boys made a zen garden
out of the the volleyball court,
a spiral raked into the sand,
and in the center,
a few stones,
Oliver is trampling on them.
One hand yanks impatiently on the net
and the other presses a smartphone to his ear
as he sways, clumsily riding the piece down.
The contrast is perfect,
and just as I am cresting
on the poignancy of the moment,
Cross slouches by,
his balding head
and beady eyes fixed below.
He calls in his thick new jersey accent,
“Ay, Oliver is screwin ahp the zen gahden! What a fahget!”