She is a catsuit,
A catsuit that is thought to be
Too vulgar,
Too Extravagant,
Too food
For hungry eyes
And mouths
Of the judges,
Of spectators in fedora hats and scarfs,
Drinking Champaign
during tennis matches,
The tennis shows
That are conducted by Her
So nobly,
So divinely,
So Wagnarianly.
World’s tennis number one
Turns into the Black Swan
Swimming in a white tutu
Over the bloody orange gravel
Of Rolland Garros,
Gliding over the imperial
“La Coste” décor and faces.
She is a cat,
She tears the stage curtains,
Jumps into the white void
Of Chanel dresses and costumes,
A black cat collects Grand Slam awards,
A bad omen that
Crosses consistently the path
of masons and lions.
