— Diane L. Moomey
Ball slices into the rough,
too rough: Smell of wet
cat, rustle of leaves, snick
of a snapping twig.
I leave my white ball where it lies
and take another.
Ninth hole. I scoop
this ball from the cup,
still dewy. A tuft of tawny hair
sticks to its pebbled surface.
Sand trap, your scat. This morning
you were seen upon the green.
The rough again— eyes, you waiting
for dusk, for dark, waiting for me
to pack my clubs, cross the last green,
slam the car door. You, patiently
waiting your turn.