Brendan hucked up a golf ball
he’d swallowed several years ago
after his only hole-in-one.
It was a point of honor,
his threesome insisted.
How was he to know they were insane?
Now at least there’s something
for his trophy cabinet,
even though the cover
of his Titleist is gone,
done in, he supposed, by stomach acids.
Didn’t even look like a golf ball
any more, just a frayed pellet
of wound elastics.
And what was it they’d done to him
in the trap on the very next hole?
He remembered thinking,
"Why, they all have tweezers!"