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.