Flags breeze over tarmac in the club lot,
container ships steam up the coast,
smokestacks like cigars
between the loose lips of the bay.
Your nine iron drawn back for the swing,
a half chuckle: that's where you left off,
in the surf of bees and grass
at the twelfth hole, the remnants
of the host beneath your tongue,
business card in pocket (Vice Pres., American Shipping).
Curiosity was your business.
I ask you to come close.
Footsteps rustle in the witchgrass,
cotton cuffs switch past, the stalks stir.
How lucky it is I was born
to tell you the way it all turned out.
No comments:
Post a Comment