Pandemic Golf


Pandemic Golf

Does not touch flagstick.

Does foursome elbow bump.

Brings their own water.

Doesn’t rake bunkers

Doesn’t play in leagues

Elevates the hole.

Rides golf cart alone

Stays a safe distance 

Washes hands post-game.

So, I started playing golf in March

After a four-year hiatus

After breaking my wrist

Which is better in the warmer climate

And no, it did not improve my game.

I moved in December from the sometimes-frigid Mid-Hudson Valley 

90 miles north of NYC, the coronavirus epicenter,

South to sunny Florida

Where the grass is sticky

In the rough

And the greenskeeper is

One of Satan’s disciples.

You know what I mean

He purposely fucks

With the cup angles

And there is no way

A human can prevail.

And you need thick skin

like 2 ml. Thick.

It can be devastating without Angel juice.  

Psst… Angel aka Birdie juice can be had

But requires driving the green and sinking the ball in one putt or less on a par three.

Then along comes a pandemic

And I am seriously wondering

If someone opened the doors

To Hell or you know    Purgatory

where the demons and the angels get together

for Jokes (about humans that are not Michelle Wie or Tiger Woods who choose to play golf) 

and Spiked Juice.

Talk about rolling thunder

This is where the wings come off

Badass Angels and Demons compete 

And no one plays with a punk-ass colored ball.

The winner gets to play 18 holes with a few humans. 

It is a random draw, a spin on the roulette table. And only the spirits can win.

Which is why it is so exasperating to us humans.  You never know who will show up.  Or inside whom.

The game changes from day-to-day

Week to week

The challenge is real

The stakes are high

And there is no end 

to the mind games.

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