He leans against an invisible wall
upright, his head cocked lawnward.
It is Ike standing over the ball
Patient, his knickers immaculately laundered.
He lets his wrists do the work.
The arc of the putter’s head is minimal.
He never presses or jerks.
His putting style is inimitable.
His haberdashery has reverted
to that of the days of ladies in frocks,
and the gallery is sometimes startled
by the dashingness of his argyle socks.
upright, his head cocked lawnward.
It is Ike standing over the ball
Patient, his knickers immaculately laundered.
He lets his wrists do the work.
The arc of the putter’s head is minimal.
He never presses or jerks.
His putting style is inimitable.
His haberdashery has reverted
to that of the days of ladies in frocks,
and the gallery is sometimes startled
by the dashingness of his argyle socks.
Ike putts. A white, inexorable beetle,
the ball crawls and the putt sinks.
Ike’s famous grin is subtle,
qualified by one of his famous winks.
The caddy salutes with the flag.
The ball plummets into the dark tunnel,
emerges in space, its tail wags,
it orbits the lip of the huge funnel,
spirals accelerating down
through the black fundamental hole,
vanishes from its own sight, and nearly drowns
in infinity but remembers to roll
and emerges from nowhere, curling to a stop
behind Ike standing on the links,
his wise eyes still locked on the cup.
He straightens. Briefly doffs. Again he winks.
the ball crawls and the putt sinks.
Ike’s famous grin is subtle,
qualified by one of his famous winks.
The caddy salutes with the flag.
The ball plummets into the dark tunnel,
emerges in space, its tail wags,
it orbits the lip of the huge funnel,
spirals accelerating down
through the black fundamental hole,
vanishes from its own sight, and nearly drowns
in infinity but remembers to roll
and emerges from nowhere, curling to a stop
behind Ike standing on the links,
his wise eyes still locked on the cup.
He straightens. Briefly doffs. Again he winks.
