golf (poem)

In the sea of blue collars
that I grew up swimming in
golf was the thing
that rich people did
or old folks who weren’t really rich
but learned, to look like
they were having a better retirement
than they actually were;

real people don’t play golf,
I still think this.
 Maybe minigolf
you know, with all the
cute little towers and gnomes
when you were a kid
or goofy in your 20’s
but not really golf. No real
person plays golf. 
 Right now I am reading
about how it is the 18th day
of less than a hundred days
of being president
that the president is playing golf
having just bombed
a country and killed 36 men 
so thousands more can hate us justly
to the tune of sixteen million dollars

that would buy a lot of golf balls 
 or meals on wheels

or health care 
 yet there he is

playing golf

real people
do not play golf
they huddle in their houses
feeling the irons strike the walls
blowing windows into splinters
there’s a hazard…
and the rattle on the roof
of rocks
the size
of golf balls.