| Three Poems | |
| Miles Watson | |
|
Par Three with my Father Give me forsythias planted halfmoon 
Best Friends Summers we spent at the lakehouse, The lot between your place and ours Was a kingdom my brother and I ruled daily. Not that we wouldn’t have shared it Had you ever come down from that second-story window. You never waved, never smiled, never left, And we never knocked on your door, Never asked if you could or why you couldn’t Come out and play. You were our toughest audience: We played what we thought you would like, Tried to draw you out of that house with Baseball, b.b.guns, bike-jumps, and death defying stunts. Since we didn’t know your name, we gave You ones of our own—sometimes Richie, Occasionally Pete or Stu. The days we walked To the pier, though you couldn’t see that far, We took you along, imagined you on the ledge Between us, your skinny toes dipped in the dark water. We fished for whales with eyes as big as yours, We talked about Pete Rose, you always laughed, You told us we were your best friends, Then you pushed us into the lake, hurled yourself after, One second, the king of our world, the next, Gone under the shake of green glass.
When a Cuban's Not a Cuban You sit top-step & light this Montecristo You paid too many Pesos for in Cancun, Last summer's cruise You also paid too much for, Because you are bad with money, But you have this nice Ten-carat gold lighter To show for it, The way it glints & fires, & you wait For the head to catch & ash, For the taste you had to have Eight months ago On a street that wore Vendors like the dust. It's nothing like You thought it would be, This can’t be a Cuban, it's dry, You wheeze with each Draw, you blow smoke That dances off to the moon, & you try to remember The last time you danced With your wife. As if you could, Stubborn as you are, Mad because she won't Allow you to smoke in the house, so You stand, Nearly trip In your hurry downstairs, Brush past the wisteria & make your way Behind the building Into the fourth fairway, The public golf course That curves around Your condominium complex. There is order here, There are rules You understand. The short stiff bermuda Tickles your soles As you walk, Then you stop, 143 yards from the pin, Clinch your cigar In your teeth & Swing, just for practice, Before, say, you lift one Sweet & straight, Right at the stick— You just know it— & it is, But it's long. You didn't account for the wind Gusting up over Your right shoulder, & you've flown the pin. Say the thin guy Jogging down the cartpath Sees you grimace & says Anyway, "Hey...nice shot," & you say nothing back Because you know He doesn't have these Kinds of problems— He isn't married, He is good on his feet, He can cha-cha, tango, His handicap Hovers around three. He could have told you The six was too much, He wouldn't be here Where you are At the back of the green, Down on your haunches Surveying The thirty-two feet Between you & the cup, Darkness Making the read Hard, but you think It breaks slightly left Until the moon leans In & tells you She thinks it breaks Right, so you steady Yourself over the ball While the dogwoods Reach for their wallets & lay down their twenties For & against you, & you fold Your fingers together, One easy motion & the ball Is off, Rolling downslope Towards what never comes, The sound of going home. |