Light breezes blow over the golf course
as little carts motor by,
like items on a conveyer belt.
Christmas carols ludicrously play
as the temperature approaches eighty.
I am sitting on the verandah of a grand hotel,
an alien in the land of leafy palm trees.
I have never played golf,
“a good walk interrupted,” it is said,
but it would be thrilling to strike a ball
and leisurely follow its flight,
as TV cameras effortlessly do.
I would not join any club admitting me,
nor would I be able to handle
the frustration of missing a short putt.
Maybe envy is par for the course here
as I realize I’m in territory
way below my handicap.
Golf, definitely, is not my cup of tee.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME