December 1, 2014

Bad Lie

My father never 
broke eighty,
his ball not going
far enough,
forever lost
somewhere in the rough,
rolling away from the cup
right into the water.

We watched him
come slowly to rest,
buried deep
in an earthy trap,
each stone 
marking partners
who'd already
played through,
scores visible
just under their names,
welcoming him at last
into their club,
just as though
he had real game.

He was content
to play along,
showing off 
his sad collection 
of minor trophies,
including me, not knowing
we'd soon be discarded
when he was gone,
all boxed up,
like father, like son,
much closer now
than ever before.