Walter Hyatt
A sociologist, what was his name, Domhoff,
marveled at how much people like us
enjoy? endure? golf.
I think that was the last book I read
except for strictly work-related stuff
or a thriller on flights.
Movies are my thing, ever since I was a kid;
I thought I died and went to heaven when
we invented VHS, then DVD
and digital, the big home screen …
Still have a piece of that.
But golf – what could be better than
fresh air and walking?
At the top, work is the same as talking
with friends, and when you’re tired of working
(or when your work is done) you’re playing,
in an environment that’s pretty much
how people have always imagined heaven.
These days my handicap
is seven, and I’m happy to let younger guys play through;
though occasionally one of them is a Jew
or even, every so often, black, they’re
fine. What would I do at home?
The flowers she brings in
are like a hospital room, or worse; the silent
phone – well, I prepared for that
during my messy year
of minimum security, public service …
Remind myself I often wanted it.
I only regret you can’t see the mountains; this area
has become so developed, pushing farther and
farther into the desert. The airport,
which used to be weeds, has become a hub
and the planes are overhead.
Sometimes a hatch opens and one
or two step out with
parachutes (which have barely enough time
to open), suits or uniforms a little
sweaty but we take them in,
feed them, even invite them to play a hole
as the plane flies on into the city.
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