A poem for the reigning champ
The sun off the trophy cracked his face in two. He looked at it, not in triumph, but almost as if it were a puzzle:
How should it it be held? How can it be kept?
Jannik Sinner, the golden boy -- but just the half. The unmistakable dominance of the masters.
The other, shadowed by Paris.
Will the sun shine fully on him in London?
Or the gray of the city return, a Serbian chill.
Hold it -- tender, careful, champion.
Don't drop it now.











