Prose Poem: Memory of a Golf Game


Dave Hood

The duffer, a serious, quiet gent,
places the ball gingerly on to the tee,
looks toward the white flag on the green,
blowing in the breeze, three football fields
away. He sets up, swings the club, drives the ball
like Tiger Woods hitting a “Big Bertha,”
watches as the ball soars, sails in the air,
down the fairway, over the tree tops,
past the murky pond, like a missile
that’s on target. The ball lands 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, high five’s his buddies,tap dances,
tosses his golf club in the air, runs up the fairway,  
waving his cap, screaming “It’s a hole in one!”
like someone who`s taken leave of their senses.


About Dave Hood

Lover of poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction. Professional photographer and writer. Without the arts, life would be rather mundane, like a walk down the same old path on a dull day.
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