Consecrating the disasters of
his nineteen lives,
Horatio wheels his pitching
wedge like the
hand of a clock
He lofts a white
seed into the
twilight over Hacienda Avenue
It lands in the
percolation pond with a
plop, the sound of an asterisk
Horatio takes a seat on the
grassy berm in front of his
bar and lights a cigarette
This, finally, is the
key that fits the lock,
that seals off his two
marriages, his son in prison,
his daughter lost to the
Jehovah’s Witnesses,
his store going under as
the big groceries eat him alive
But now he’s good with it.
He lifts a martini to the
sunset, a chain-link
cloud gone scarlet
He hears a sound like a
ream of paper dropped
into a wind tunnel.
He turns to find a
Canadian goose, the white earflaps,
the stern black head,
wings of gray tweed.
The goose paddles his way up
the berm and deposits a
Titleist at Horatio’s feet
Horatio sips his martini,
calculating the odds that
this goose does not actually exist.
The goose presses his
yellow tongue to the
inside of his
mouth and hisses.
Horatio stands.
You want another one, boy?
The goose lets out a
deafening honk
Horatio reaches for his bag.
This time, a seven iron.
He swings.
The ball soars.
The goose gallops across
Hacienda and takes flight.
Plop.
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