I enter the course with
with club in hand.
It is a dirt-bag 18 hole, grassless
with plastic cups permanently seated
in the hardpan Quartzsite desert.
Natural sand traps crisscross,
along with an occasional snake
or tumbleweed obstacle.
You enter the course with a dry
martini hangover and nine-hole intentions.
Your bag has a plethora of broken tees
you meant to throw out. Your chin
sports a Graham DeLaet 5 o’clock shadow;
there are no caddies here.
This is a heat-rash game of dusty strokes
and parched putts, interrupted by
the call of soft Sonoran Quail.
Where Saguaros put up with the Javalenas,
lunge at the boiling-lava skies
and fantasize about poking
a hole in them.