Teeing in the Lake, poem by Naomi Hurtienne

      Three o’clock a.m. We bought a #9 iron off
      the discount rack at the Wal-Mart and
      15 bucks in used balls.

      Slid through empty, middle-class
      streets. Moms and dads tucked in
      under their Sears knock-off quilts,

      dreams scrambling their brains with
      second class mortgages and who’s
      gonna pick up Junior from soccer.

      I don’t envy them and their bank-
      owned Volvos. I’m only concerned with blasting
      my little white bombs

      Into their private lake. It used to be mine,
      but I’m on the South-side now, lost the
      right to the water when poverty

      rabbit punched me. I stopped just before
      the spillway, cut the lights, put it in
      park. We marched down,

      holding the club like a scepter,
      the bag of plastic-pimpled balls
      bouncing on my hip.

      Had no tees, used a
      Starbucks Double Shot and sent
      the sucker into

      wham-bam-thank-you-can heaven.
      Decided just to knock ‘em
      straight off the ground, the club

      grinding against concrete
      on each shot, hurling sparks
      and making nice chicken bock-bock

      noises, as the balls sliced
      and hooked the night
      into a spiral cut ham.



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