Eliora Goodman // THE GOLF COURSE AT NIGHT

Chatham

a sleepy fishing town

with a homelessness problem

home to many shiny summertime mansion

and the occasional shark.

 

There’s giant golf course

a crisp, artificial green

like the money that maintains it.

 

As the sun sets, they leave

harumphing about the game being cut short

scurrying away with their personalized clubs

and pastel polo shirts.

 

Quiet.

 

Empty.

 

Then we reclaim it.

 

First the bats swoop in

as orange flames lick the sky

dive-bombing the dusk mosquitoes.

 

Then a deer,

cautiously darts around the dark, forested edge

wide eyes and a small, spotted tail.

 

Next, the bullfrogs bellow their arrival

harUMPH…harUMPH…harUMPH

echoing across the pond and the sandtraps.

 

Finally, I sprint through

laughing,

my brother and sister close behind

as we race barefoot

to the top of the hill

 

Where we sit under the old tree

with infinite, spiraling branches

and tell ghost stories

until the moon has illuminated the cattails

around the artificial pond.

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