You don’t play golf for truth’s sake.
You don’t putt a ball in a hole called death.
You can hit a word long or short
into the rough or sand trap.
You can slice or hook. Henry V was given tennis balls.
He played a set—struck the crown of France into the hazard.
We must play whatever the weather,
tennis, golf, our cards. I don’t play bridge.
It’s London Bridge, Brooklyn Bridge,
the Bridge of Sighs for me.
Poets foot fault, carry their own clubs,
the tennis balls and rackets of others.
It’s not a matter of birdies and eagles, set points,
aces, double faults, or advantage-ins.
I keep score in syllables, meter,
free verse—I don't replace my divots.
I shout “fore!” which means “watch out” in golf.
I drive my ball out of bounds, beyond the rough.
Impossible, I find my gravestone:
Stanley was a good sport, not a sore loser.
He won some, and lost some games.
And something about his game changed the game.
I am afraid I will try to play
my viola, guitar, lute or harp
with a tennis racket that has broken strings
after the ball is over.