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Poetry

Making Par

by Barrett Warner


    She buys me a weekend
    at the golf course,
    a bucket of exploding golf balls
    I can use as gags
    with all my friends.

    What she really wants
    is to get me clear of the house.
    She wants to pack her things
    quick and silent
    the way you murder an old friend
    in his sleep.

    One by one,
    I put the golf balls
    into her shoes like scorpions.
    Unlike my grandfather
    who was raised in Menard,
    she will not know
    to shake her boots out
    before pushing her toes inside,
    placing all of her weight on one foot.

 

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