He slung the bag over his shoulder and trudged
up the walk made of crushed white pebbles and stones.
The bag wasn't comfortable, he shook it--it didn't budge,
the clubs clacked along with each step, like clattering bones.
Over the rise, a line of stands rested atop green grass
soon to be scraped away, with each swing that passed.
He listened to the murmur of voices subdued, delayed
and overwhelmed by the thwack each solid contact made.
His friend had bright red hair, tucked for now
under a baseball cap, just above a scowl.
He took a swing and showed a satisfied smile
as the white ball traveled a country mile..
"Hi Bob," he said as he set the bag down, "what's new?"
Bob looked up, beaming, "I got new clubs, what about you?"
"Really? New clubs?" he asked. "Oh, me, nothin' that exciting.
"Looking for a better stroke, hopin' the 'no-see-ums' aren't biting."
"Way too, windy for 'no-see-ums' today my friend,
we can hang in here until the bitter end."
And so we did, I found my better stroke, if only for a minute or two,
and Bob enjoyed swinging his clubs while they were still brand new.
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