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 a good twenty yards.
“Shot!” they call out;
Canto II
On the hardwood court, sweaty bright,
bringing the ball up, surveying options,
ball kisses fingertips, needing to share,
calculating— pass, pass, swish, “Get back”—
sneakers squeaking, “Switch,”
the ball,
a constant drumbeat,
rips the netting;
Canto III
On the gridiron, Friday night, October chill,
crowd leaning in along the limed sidelines,
pom pom pretties bounce— she’s there—
the whistle’s shrill cry,
ball soars,
heart pounding race—
quarterback barks like a San Francisco seal,
darting toward, an instant of daylight,
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.
. . . j
from the Childhood Remedy and Other Such collection
j's blog 