By Dave Hood
The duffer,
who’s a serious,
quiet gent,
places the ball
gingerly
On to the tee,
Looks toward the red flag
Blowing in the breeze,
Three football fields away,
sets up, swings,
Drives the ball
Like Tiger Woods
hitting a “big Bertha”
watches, waits patiently,
As the ball soars, sails in the air,
Down the fairway,
Over the tree tops,
Past the murky pond,
Like a hawk flying in the sky,
Landing with a “thud”,
just off the manicured green,
in front of the pin,
between two sand traps,
rolls toward the flag,
as if on a pool table,
then disappears into the cup.
The duffer smiles,
yells, jumps for joy,
high five’s his buddies,
Does a tap dance,
Tosses his golf club,
in the air,
runs up the fairway,
waving his cap,
screaming “It’s a hole in one !”,
as though he’s taken leave
of his senses…
