'Don't tell me how to play golf,'
Wanda reprimands the strange, wild-eyed calisthenics instructor
who has wandered onto the green,
dispensing advice like vol au vents.
But she knows he is right.
This only stokes her ire. Her eye
ticks like a gnat's licking at her tear duct.
'And anyway, I don't see you
struggling under the weight of umpteen
pro-am trophies, Nick Faldo,' these last syllables
dripping with especial sardonic relish.
She wields her five iron righteously.
The man's vim drains like pus from a boil.
His eyes moisten; as he slopes away
he remembers to bend his legs.
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