Off My Game

By Chris McClure Contributing Editor

Pasture pool was never my strength

Although I admit I have played at length

To get that white dimpled orb

To fall into a hole in the ground.

It seems quite insane to whack with a stick

That round shiny thing with a powerful lick

So it flies through the air

Into weeds where it can never be found.

It taxes my mind to add up the strokes

To totals far higher than those of other folks

As I hike over carefully mown grass

Completing this thing called a round.

Finally at end I find the clubhouse

For a drink at the bar with my waiting spouse

Where others are bragging of all their great shots

I sit there with nary a sound.