Good poem

YMCA, 1971

It took a quarter to keep the lights on—
that was all the machines knew. And so
my mother emptied her purse for change
while my father tried to resuscitate a man
on the tennis court in the dark. But the man
died. The paramedics called the heart attack
massive, a widow maker. My parents
had just wed; neither one knew how to play
tennis well, it was something they were going
to pick up together. Years later,
after taking up racquetball instead, after their son dies,
after they divorce, this is the one story
where their two sides continue to match.
They say it felt like it was going to be
another ordinary day. They fed the dog,
then walked into the damp indoor air
onto the invisible slick of the courts. My father
was poised to receive my mother’s serve when
a woman cried, My god. My god. I don’t know
what to do—the buzzer sounded that time was up
on the lights, everybody dropped their rackets
and began running in the dark
toward the white glow of the dying man’s clothes.

--Kristen Tracy, in The Southern Review, Autumn 2005