Maybe I should have stripped
with my friends in the midnight
moonlight on the 12th fairway
of that public golf course,
tossed aside cut-offs and doobie
brothers t-shirt, unpeeled striped
tube socks, chucked high-top
converse and – debauchery! —
bound down the bermuda
barefoot, naked in the garden,
in sober joy, one final romp
before the dawn of adulthood.
Instead, I remained in the sand
trap fully dressed, enmeshed
in envy, watching their white
backs and bottoms, alabaster
in the mythical night.
Decades later, translucence:
if I could have unwedged
myself from that bunker,
maybe now I’d be the kind
of man who could find courage,
somewhere, even in the safety
of the righteous mob.
Barry Peters is a writer and teacher in Durham, NC, USA. Recent/forthcoming: Best New Poets 2018, Baltimore Review, Connecticut River Review, Miramar, Rattle, The Southampton Review, Sport Literate.
The Cabinet of Heed 