off the green turf mats and grass.
Three stalls to my right, to my delight
there’s a man who’s acting like an ass.
He swings his brand new driver.
It’s a Callaway Diablo, I think.
The head connects, a titanium caress,
launching the ball with a “tink.”
His stance is wobbly and crooked.
He takes a sinfully bad swing.
The ball hooks off, he says it soft:
“Stupid Mother-F#!^ing thing.”
And with each ball he strikes
the volume of swearing increased.
His face is so red, I dare to dread
That more expletives will be released.
“HELL, $!#*, DAMN” is all he gets out
Articulating anger in curses.
I’m at a loss but I wouldn’t dare cross
Him when he returns from golf courses.
His anger apparent and noticing now
that I’m staring at his hot, white collar.
Between “F##K” and “thwack”, I tip my ball cap
“Beautiful morning isn’t it, Father!”