Hey old man. I bet you thought
I forgot. I’m looking at you
right now: we’re playing golf
at St. Andrews, the winds cutting
the fairways and the sun’s trapped
behind a wall. I can see infinity
in your eyes. It’s cold out here,
but your hand around my shoulder’s a remedy.
The day’s eager to escape—but we
grab it by its neck.
Remember when you taught me how
to hold the club. You said
“okay old boy, grab it by its neck,
but don’t choke it. Squeeze it
with the same pains you would a bird.”
I’m looking at you right now—we’re on
the far side past the far side
of the world—where the sun
neglects its purpose, like
a dictionary without words,
and we’re stuck in the sweep
of glorious abandonment.