I grab my paddle
and slam out the door.
My brother and I take our sides
and prepare for the match.
To see who serves,
I spin the paddle—
the paddle with electrical tape
wrapped around the handle,
the paddle covered
with scrapes and tears
from various "incidents."
I serve the ball
over the wooden net
and onto the grooved table
fashioned from
two sawhorses
and two old doors
we found behind the house,
which creates crazy ricochets
as we play.
I wait for a real
Ping-Pong table,
one with a reliable surface
and soft net,
one with official lines
and even sides,
one that's actually green.
But until then
this one's perfect.
