August 24, 2018Golf with Bob
A romantic might see lovers’
footprints—two sets, stride by stride,
crisscrossing slopes from tree-sheltered
tee boxes in morning’s wet grass
before they suddenly part.
But that was just us, heading off
to find our drives, hit our irons—Nice one!
or Uh-oh! Then
the distinct steps blur, blotch, hurry
back to the other’s side, move greenward,
near enough so a detective or suspicious wife
could imagine hands were held.
We weren’t even good friends.
Our games were just well matched.
His power, my strategy. Monday
and Wednesday partners.
Now I play with whoever’s up for a game.
On the 14th hole I still look around, lose
focus, my drives wandering
into the tall magnolias
like Bob’s used to. We’d stop
and hunt through the small forest, musty
and thick with fallen leaves,
for as long as it took.
from #60 - Summer 2018