“Patent Pending”

by William Greenway

When you return from skulling, blading, hooking,
or slicing your pathetic shot to plant

your sorry, fat ass back on the vinyl seat,
the cart will expel, like a sponged fart,

That’s what I thought, in the
digital voice of the parent of your choice.

Or, When will you learn? And after
you land in the sand, like a worse D-Day,

Quel surprise. This might
catch on, for it plays those

leaden oldies in your head, but out
loud for all the world to hear,

like the voice of an oracle welling
from the deep of the dark cup

as you hover above the endless
two-foot putt for par:

Now, don’t choke as usual,

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