Poor Man’s Golf

They played poor man’s golf
Where a stick was like a club
And the men wore overalls
Driving cars with no windows
In the pouring rain
And they all had hats
Wide-brimmed and festive
Multi-colored and spotted
So they stuck out like sore thumbs
But they never minded
Those markers of history
Those forget-me-nots
Drunk on their own mortality
Stained by caustic mud
Yet smiling all the while

They played poor man’s golf
When poor men died daily
In alleys twice crusted over
With filth and genocide
And they rode in carts
Oblivious to what should have been
Where they were expected to be
Who needed them there
Girlfriends and mistletoe
Dream-staged and ready
But they were in the fairway
200 yards out and moving
Pants frayed at the edges
Skimming the tended ground
Just like their fathers did

They played poor man’s golf
While war raged in the background
It was a separate world
Divided in black and white
With a line down the middle
Thick and unending
Parallel to their reality
While they struck the ball
And it took massive flight
It seemed to pause in midair
Then to disappear like rain
In the twinkling of an eye
Then they walked after it
Following the path of destiny
Before fading away

They played poor man’s golf
As if they were rich men
And no one told them different
Because they were.

Sam