On the golf course, alone at dusk,
sand traps beckon like Homer's Sirens,
greens slick and tilted -
playing with the ghosts
of Arnold Palmer and Sam Snead.
All three balls split the fairway,
mine out front by twenty yards.
"Shot!" they call out;
On the hardwood court, sweaty bright,
bringing the ball up, surveying the options,
ball kisses fingertips, ready to share,
calculating, pass, pass, swish, get back -
sneakers squeaking, "Switch,"
the ball,
a constant drum beat,
rips the netting;
On the gridiron, Friday night, October chill,
crowd leaning in along the sidelines,
pom pom pretties, she's there,
the whistle blows, ball soars, heart pounding race -
quarterback barks like a San Francisco seal,
darting toward an instant of daylight,
through a sliver of open, then a crowd of thud,
and a face full of turf;
Oh, the games boys play to get ready for the rest.
