Sometimes when I daydream
I lose myself in thoughts
About how everyday places
Could easily become golf holes.
The park out my office window
with the naturally sloping terrain
Is the perfect place for pitch shots
beneath the skyline of the city.
There’s a field of golden farmland
I pass while driving at dusk
To my parents house for dinner
That should be a short par four.
When I walk down the beach
With my daughter in the sand
I ponder putting by the sea as
She climbs dunes on the shore.
When I stroll through the woods
During the cold months of winter
The tree-lined paths I hike on
Look like fairways in my mind.
The hillside by the highway
Where the old fence line stands
Has windblown bunkers guarding
A ridge that could be a green.
There is the quiet cove at the lake
Near the house I frequently visit
With a crested knoll on an isthmus
That is a par three shaped by God.
Beyond the asphalt runway
Of the airport I often fly from
There are gentle hills that roll
Over land clearly made for golf.
The steeples of the churches
In my old and quaint hometown
Would make a perfect aim point
For a par five down Main Street.
Then there’s the winding stream
Which flows where I used to fish
While wondering what kind of shot
It would take to clear the bend.
On my way home from work
In a well lit square downtown
sits a perfect patch of grass
Where I could probably play at night.
I even make holes at my house
When I mow the lawn on Mondays
following around the flower beds
which my wife keeps finely pruned.
The places I imagine playing
Are merely figments in my mind
Which I conjure up for pleasure
Because for golf, I have no time.
Life won’t lend me the freedom
To spend my days out on the course
So I see holes all around me
Which may very well be worse.
Perhaps I’m just plain crazy
And the game has made me so
But I find some comfort knowing
That golf is everywhere I go.