Friday, September 18, 2015

Tap Tap Tap ...

I see him standing in our living room
Golf balls placed intentionally behind his 
putter, huddled together at his target
He grabs an iron from his golf bag 
flings a dimpled, white globe into the air 
catches it steadfast on the side of his club
We begin to count as he bounces the ball 
up and down, up and down
waist high and almost to the floor.
Our voices become shrill 
two hundred eleven, two hundred twelve
tap tap tap 
The ball finally hits the carpet with a soft thud 
We groan and we cheer in the same gasp
He beats his own record every time 
Soon, I can't just watch him anymore 
I get up and try it for myself
and laugh as I clumsily fail to recreate 
what he did so effortlessly, with one hand
in one swift motion

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