Golf

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I was looking for a quiet night, sipping beer.

A dark red, with creative character,

Never pale, insipid lager,

Better used for watering urinals.

Isn’t much reason to come here, banter’s banal.

Bartenders tend to get caught in conversation.

But, it’s close, it’s cheap, ale’s fine;

Most of all, their calamari’s sublime.

Apparently that was the wrong comment to make,

When redheaded waitress finally wandered by again,

Cute, pierced, asked how everything was:

I explained that the calamari

 Was the most delicate, enjoyable I’d tasted,

So far away from Monterey, even Carmel…

Never intended to attract

Attention from two pressed Dockers Polo shirts.

Stocks, bonds, slick promotions, high on their list,

California free style, hair cuts to match,

Perrier attitudes, with lemon twist…

Intruding to ask did you ever shoot golf there?

Younger guy’d played Spanish Bay, Laguna himself.

Hit the ball damn well, impressive.

  My friend wants to make the trip this summer.

Maybe play Cypress.  Ever get a chance to play?

(Of course, Cypress is restricted, no Jews, no blacks)

Test your game on a real man’s course?

Soft smile, small sip, looked them straight in blue eyes:

I’ve played them all, something to do, nothing to prove,

Played Pebble Beach twice, just to watch waves crash on shore.

Grayer head stared, cleared his throat:

Pebble Beach?  How’d you play? Ever break par?

Many lies could have been told, stories to amaze,

But safe approach was to lay up:

It was a beautiful walk in the park.