Father and Son
Dad steps up to the tee,
looks for the green,
the bunkers, the fairway,
shakes out his arms once or twice,
and sniffs the freshly trimmed grass.
Then, he tees up his Top Flite ball
that cost him a penny,
tucks in his shirt from
The Salvation Army,
and adjusts his sunglasses,
from the kiosk at the mall.
He squares up to his ball,
takes a couple practice swings,
then addresses it.
He raises his club straight up,
shifts his weight from side to side,
then addresses the ball again.
The course falls quiet,
the wind calms, as he inhales.
He brings back the club,
smooth and relaxed, he cleanly
transitions to a wrecking ball,
and whacks the crap
out of his target, only
to find the ball flying into the water.
Indifferent, he shrugs, smiles,
like a kid at Cedar Point,
and kicks himself for
forgetting his swim trunks.
He and his worn out golf shoes
stroll back to his cart.
His son now rushes over
with his four dollar Titleist
in his Sunday red
like Tiger Woods,
and stretches out his arms
for a moment, but
wastes no more time.
Uncontrolled and impatient
he swings and looks up
only to find that his Titleist
has also gone swimming. Again.
Holding back the tears,
the hundred dollar Nikes saunter over
and he glares at his father.
“S*** happens son.”