On the Back Nine

Nothing, no good hits on this
irrelevant and irreverent
nevertheless glorious morn.

Ritual brings them here,
always the same four,
carrying clubs and beer,

spreading foul shots
and fresh cheer
over the warm green.

Far into the back nine
a fox crosses
their fairway in a jig.

A twisted old man in an oilskin
coat chases after the fox,
waves, and disappears.