Last to go of godlihood
is guilt
I still feel guilty
about the things I do
The lies I feed with tubes
Right now I feel sick
that I have not yet
called my grandmother
even though she recently
sent me money
for a suit. I was sensible
getting one appropriate
for weddings
as well as funerals
A sort of charcoal rubbing
There are other offenses
The provocation of anger
to prevent boredom
The minutes I store away
like bodies, to keep
from returning. I’ve been told
I’m way too intense
That I borrow bags
like golf bags, body bags
and don’t return them
          An actual PGA pro
once gave me his golf bag
and told me to cover his name
with tape. So I did, and
felt with every swing
his presence, like
I had to honor the clubs
somehow, hit the ball true
I have never been true
Here and there
I’d get one right, watch
as the ball became smaller
against the sky, like
a thumbtack being placed
Mostly I was shit
thwacking balls
into water hazards, sand traps
adjacent holes
where golfers posed beautifully
in their games
like lilies
against grassy embalments
admiring