I TAKE COMFORT IN GOLF
Men like to move on to the next hole.
It’s like the Stations of the Cross.
One does not dwell forever
on the agony in the garden.
Some women don’t like Saturdays,
left alone in their slippers,
but I pretend I’m the ninth green
at Augusta National.
There is a rise between blue cedars,
a little shack where they store rakes,
a fountain after the exhausting climb,
and a box where you can wash your balls.
You make the handle go up and down
and the balls come out whiter.
Looking down the fairway,
you can dream about your life.
KISS
My father used to kiss me when I went off to school,
right in the yard as the yellow bus pulled up.
Boys sitting in the back
couldn’t wait to get their hands on me.
A kiss became a prelude
to a miserable ride.
I could not tell my father,
Please don’t do that. Get away!
To him a kiss was a talisman
to keep me out of harm’s way.
So I was the mute recipient of blessings gone awry.
A kiss became a signal to be brave.
You’d think after twenty years of school,
I’d come to learn the burden of a kiss.
