Get a grip, I cry! As if the club were just a wayward thought.
Rectify, stand tall, don’t sway and put away all stray-ward thought.
A Canada goose sells sodas to those beside me waiting.
I could read all of Melville and still have time for Shaw, he thought.
My knees dream of distant lands, of pounding surf and black pearl sands.
My hips are locked in sorrow, my butt sticks out despite my thought.
Seattle is nice this time of year, blue skies and soft lake winds
and women in pleated skirts so short they mess up all your thought.
Enough! I cry, drawing back my swing. Damn them, if I hook it.
And drive it square into the goose. Birdie! I cry — a happy thought.