It was Huron cool
in my nine-green Eden
those first few rounds,
elated at my first "job."
This was no "chore."
I fingered my tips at the tee.
My eyes out described Clark Kent's.
No rough was unready for me.
I always picked just the proper club.
By noon the shimmering greens
had become Burning Tree, St. Andrews, even.
Then we broke brown sacks together
by a driving range "club house."
Dessert was unexpected fruit:
"I'll kick the shit
of out you!" (economic competition)
Rangy red haired Mick.
My mother's sandwich turned to bile.
I quit in the blazing sun
pleading gut ache.
Ever since then, I've fought back
with my mouth.
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