At My Son’s Tennis Lesson

I'm one floor up behind a glass wall. 
The coach says parents have to stay 
if their kids are under eight.

What happens at age eight,                                                                                         are we no longer needed?                                                                                         Other parents gaze intently                                                                                                              at their phones.                                                                       This is my chance to go write a poem.

But I could stay and watch him,
because what if he leaves
his water bottle on the service line?
I notice he's gripping his forehand all wrong
with no attention from the coach.

It's already twenty minutes in.
I could go write and sneak back in                                                                                                       for the last ten
so my son won't notice.
But what if he looks up?

Outside, I'd settle on an edgy boulder, open
my checkered journal, my thick pen.
I'd set my timer for twenty-six minutes,

fifteen seconds and write
about not watching my son play tennis.