Poetry and Disc Golf

I picked up an interesting hobby over the summer and find myself with a small bag of discs and an urge to throw them. Thought I would share a poem about it.

Freeman Park

The drunk his name is Bud, steps up to make
his throw: a God-damn backhand lazer beam 300
feet below. He shrugs still holding to the can
of beer in his left hand. He steps aside
as M. J. takes the pad. She breathes in deep,
she torques, unwinds from hip to head, exhales
sedated smoke that curls and rises up.
The fade is past the clump of pines, it lands
right next to Bud's. I move up for my shot,
still hoping to impress. Step, step, cross-step forward
I grunt as I let go. Wobbly at first
yet steady now, my forehand follow through
sshuck-clunk, I cringe, a ponderosa pine
26 feet above the ground, I guess
it's me who'll climb. Bud smiles, claps me
on the back and says, "all in good time."
A punk, the drunk, a stoner: disc golf at dusk
hole 10-par 4: four hundred fifty feet.