When you hear of a new diagnosis
For someone known,
It begins again.
Every cloud seems special,
Every disappointment relative
To the breaking news.
My eighty on the links
Isn't so remarkable now -
Or is it?
Relative or not,
I'll carry my clubs tomorrow too.

As I approached
The eleventh tee,
     A red-tailed fox
     Looked up at me.
He stalks beside
A running creek,
     Our eyes met
     We didn't speak.
He took a peek
And lost his game.
     Then I teed off
    And did the same.

Lilian hit eighty-five,
Shot nine holes for forty-eight;
Drives her car not to be late.
Man alive, she's eighty-five.
That's not far off, Bro,
A few thousand weeks,
I ride my Shadow,
Shoot thirty-eight.
That's not far off, Sis,
A few thousand hits,
So I'm shooting for eighty-six,
Playing with my ***** and sticks.

I have two T times.
One nourishes solitude
When I sip on the lip
Of my favourite cup.

One feeds the need
Of companionship
As we drive towards
My favoured cup.

I returned from three days of golf
At Lake Orion, with a philosophical man.
A PhD talked the ear off me,
And spoke so deeply on the meanings
Of life as we approached the green.
Across the fence in a sawgrass meadow
I saw a doe grazing in spite of us.
I don't remember much of his diatribe
But the ball and the doe stuck.

He continued on the fallacy of memory,
Asking me to name the cities of the Olympics:
Mexico, Rome, Beijing, Montreal,
I think I was able to name them all;
But the ****** pup swimming
Beneath the walkway
Dragging a branch underwater
Cleared the air,
Like a thump on my chest,
Took my breath away,
And stopped my ear.

A guy named Jim from Delaware
Liked golfing in his underwear
Whatdya know and son of a gun
He finally got a hole-in-one
Guess he'll hafta get anotha pair!

Without asking for more than the simple sweet simplicitys,
I am bounded by the same laws and rules for life.
No use in explaining the values of eccentricities,
We are all tools for the media, for what they strive.
A product of the temptation for power over others, we will stay
The same forever, entrapped in ice with our sisters and brothers,
The silly dreams we have, our pursuits. A tiny bit of concern to the
Rich-who live to find the right eyeliner, lip gloss-or the best set of
Nine Irons for golfing or business suits. Some day they will
Get what they deserve, some day...some day.
But too bad for me, some day came a little too late...

Byron and I play
The All Topics Open.
Eighteen holes  
Invariably draws nostalgic.
Byron mentioned he went to the WWF in Detroit.
I sliced into a childhood memory
Of midgets at Cobo Hall:
Cobo Hall, Saturday Night. Be there!
Byron started pitching old wrestlers and holds:
Leaping Larry Shane, great with the Anaconda Vice;
Killer Kowalski vs. Bobo Brazil, pinned by the Crucifix and Abdominal Stretch;
**** the Bruiser tagging with The Sheik
To defeat Gorgeous George and Crybaby McCarthy.
Byron went on in detail, with tabernacle authority:
“It was a Bear Hug that quickly swung in to a Quarter,
then Half,
then Full Nelson;
Crybaby bounced off a knee,
Was driven to the mat and pinned
By a Front Sleeper.”

(Jimmy's newborn picture faded in,
and the pose he naturally struck
baby arms
cocked like a sideshow muscle man  
Daddy quipped: **** the Bruiser.
I was Leaping Larry Shane.
Daddy quipped: Larry the Stooge.
I didn't see that move)

Byron was intense. I could hear, but
I was zoning.
Crybaby and Front Sleeper dazed me.
How time Venns.

I was pinned today.
I recognized the feeling.
Tagged, then pinned by
The inescapable
Baby Nelson.
You know the hold.
On your back.
Baby on chest, face down.
Pinned.