By Billy Collins
I remember the night I discovered,
lying in bed in the dark,
that a few imagined holes of golf
worked much better than a thousand sheep,
that the local links,
not the cloudy pasture with its easy fence,
was the greener path to sleep.
How soothing to stroll the shadowy fairways,
to skirt the moon-blanched bunkers
and hear the night owl in the woods.
Who cared about the score
when the club swung with the ease of air
and I glided from shot to shot
over the mown and rolling ground,
alone and drowsy with my weightless bag?
Eighteen small cups punched into the
bristling grass,
eighteen flags limp on their sticks
in the silent, windless dark,
but in the bedroom with its luminous clock
and propped-open windows,
I got only as far as the seventh hole
before I drifted easily away -
the difficult seventh, 'The Tester' they called it,
where, just as on the earlier holes,
I tapped in, dreamily, for birdie.
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Monday was pretty quiet around here. Adam went to College Park to do more training for his job, Madeline did research for the job interview she has on Wednesday, I tried to catch up on work and correspondence that I missed while we were out of town last week. Adam got home a bit after lunch and we all hung out for a while watching funny videos.
Paul was going to make pizza, but discovered that we didn't have enough flour, so instead we had veggie crab cakes and then we all watched American Ultra, which was like a super-violent mash-up of La Femme Nikita and The Man With One Red Shoe. Here are some family photos from Viking Golf in Fenwick Island last week:
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