Repurpose the Sound of Victory

It is always a Sunday

on the eighteenth green,

the patrons silent,

the sounds of a prop engine overhead,

the commentary is low.

Tiger with his signature red shirt over the putt.

His cautious reading of the lye.

What side the ocean is on is crucial to success.

Its power to break the ball towards the hole.

Overhead that signature sound of the prop engine.

A memorable drone, today it represents a sunny Sunday

afternoon about to abrupt into celebration.

Is it the numbers that make the past more important?

For some losing the numbers is the present,

others it is taking numbers. A lineup you do not want to be in.

Has it all just come to the point of acceptance?

I am guessing you are wondering, I am wondering,

where am I going with all these numbers?

Numbers trying to maintain a shine on past atrocities.

The number of love poems in this world could be more believable,

if I could make maple syrup with them,

pour it onto Belgium waffles—feed the world.

Who talks like that anyway—a papillon

of French descent in love with black-long johns.

To some, I guess—that could be love,

Love nobody wants to talk about.

I do not belong in Paris, France

I am quite sure of that—or

The Paris Review, not even

Paris, Texas or Paris, Ontario.

Occasionally I will chime in,

dip a toe into the lake.

But I do not belong in those waters.

It is almost murky without springs

or rivers flowing in to nurture it.

Just a mass body dominating the landscape.

Occasionally it rains—similar to how

some sects will let in some fresh blood,

a temporary measure to me—1980

was a point when the world was reaching

peace—how naive was I…? Then Reagan

and then war and then oil and then 911

and then and then and then,

progression picks up its tempo

like Beethoven or Mozart would have.

But their tempos were pleasurable to all.

They say love brings everything together,

a cure for all, but I think—it is what makes everything change.

I sit alone on my dock now; it is where I belong.

My legs looking sheared off near the knee’s

hang over the edge into cool water.

Natures mirror reflect the horizon.

From a distance it may reflect me

and my ghost feet searching for the bottom

like that single cut flower in the vase

on the kitchen table too far from the light

coming through the window.

Feel free to comment, I love to read, write, and discuss poetry.

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