Late March. Frost bites the edges of the fairway.
Saved my cash, joined the cheapest course in town.
Promised myself — and God — I’d walk, not ride.
I need the exercise,
the pull cart creaks like my spine, but I push on.
Clubs in the bag.
Cold chill in my palms.
Thinking of the shots I’ve blown in life,
the ones you never get back.
Each hole is a little miracle,
a chance to ***** up less.
Each swing, a test I shouldn’t fail twice.
***** slice, hooks land wrong,
I duff it, hit it thick—Motherfucker!
I take a deep breath, a sacred pause,
and move on.
Some days the course shows no mercy.
Grass sways under the wind,
and I mumble a pathetic excuse.
It’s early in the season.
I’m a little rusty.
I see the flag on the par three,
leaning, stubborn like a toy soldier.
I remember that even the rigid can adjust.
Even fools survive.
I think this one’s a nine iron.
Choke up a little.
In the sunset of life,
violet and fiery orange at heart,
I feel the weight of wasted swings.
Springs and summers gone bad,
one after another,
whiskey in hand,
frequent flyer miles
through detox and psych wards,
choices carved scars I can’t erase.
But in this sublime game of golf,
there’s always the next hole,
a chance to learn,
to make the subtle changes,
to lay up instead of attacking the green.
I tee it up again.
Swing.
Keep my eye on the ball,
that perfect ting, that heavenly sound.
Correction, patience, grit.
Par is perfection, I aim higher.
Learning fast, slow, always hard,
hole by hole.
The last stop creeps closer
with every crooked shot.