This fine day
Out popped the sun after eight or
nine months of winter, like a big
fat baby, but people being people bitched
about the cold. That damned cold sun,
they whined. I didn’t care, dashed outside
at first light in a short skirt, hair hiked into
pigtails like a harlot and pretended
to be warm, even drank some cold beer
before noon (alternating with smooth sips
from the pewter flask) in a brisk wind
with that damned cold sun on my face
while a flock of band-tailed pigeons cooed
in a big oak at the edge of the ninth tee.
The greens ran fast and the mud didn’t
plash past my ankles for once
in a long, long while. Blue sky shimmered
overhead like an impossible dream,
as improbable as hitting a decent drive
or a straight putt. So I breathed in the cool,
green spring, cherished that damned cold sun,
shivered with delight and cursed
this damned impossible game instead.
Sensual Afflictions 