By Jordan a teen golfer, in school and on the h.s. squad
looks like he never passed a glass of milk he didn't enjoy
Tough times strike ever closer to the sons of the leisure class!
His knock: three brisk locker room raps
then he clears his milk-thickened throat
I am caught inside hopelessly
obviously in home with my radio loud
turned to a kind of public talk program
already seen through the front window on the computer
having forgot my appointment to shower
(Aren’t these enough anti-social clues?)
And so, revealed under my rock
at my own door I say Yes? even though
I am thinking
No no God no
Open door and the rush How am I he says and then burns to
Would I like to buy a raffle ticket and then I listen
to the Club's sad story -the speil -the pitch -the bullet points
He is young and fit and slightly nervous fast talking
while I am greasy and unfit
(This is awkward for both of us but we are playing through)
The sob story though is how they (the golf kids)
are now unable to go on away matches in their own team bus
(no more district money for bus and driver and new balls
but must instead crowd their Big Berthas and spiky shoes
into designated driving parents’ Sebring or Lexus)
and Jordan who must also on a Saturday afternoon
(which by all rights should be spent goofing around
at the local course with his caddy pals by all rights spent
riding a golf cart slightly recklessly and shagging Pings
did Arnie, Jack nay- even Tiger- ever struggle so?)
must now like beggar baggers go to doors
cap in hand so to speak
and finally at conclusion he stops. He smiles
A smile made for Golf Magazine
I am relieved to be relieved of five dollars cash
and tell him to buy a couple of balls
which I want to come off as biting
but unbitten he shakes my hand and I feel his palm
clammy and soft and adolescent
but who knows
may someday make the clutch putt from the rough
in the eye of the whole golfing world
and celebrate on the life giving green by shouting
Thank you! Thank you to everyone who made this possible!!
–and I imagine he might even think of this
Then I feel bad for this kid left now for other hazards
who must now find some other homebound soft touches
to make his nut
and angry with the district cuts at schools
(Politics!)
that unleash these unsolicited solicitations
from school-age woodwinders and thespians and
soccer players and Model U.N. low-caste shills
and yet I am indifferent still to the ancient game
St. Andrews will not be in my prayers tonight
