and watched a dozen men drive the first fairway,
never far but always straight, always simple.
Around their slow and level swings,
heat bloomed through leaning palm fronds.
Inside—behind the big wide glass
was something I never thought I’d be: content
in the cave of someone else’s dream—alone
with three whiskeys down, deep in the AC’s hum,
imagining a caddy to carry al I couldn’t.
Spectator, patron, I kept my tumbler brimmed,
tried, easier and easier, to tell the bartender
who I was, who I wasn’t. I am not anything like a
booming drive, I said, nothing like a straightaway.
No, I am a chip shot, a dogleg left, a sand-trap.
Somewhere along the edges hid a thousand losses—
those birdy looks gone to bogies, those simple
pars wasted by the wrong club, the rough grass
that steals away any chance at breaking even.