Disc Golf

by James Croal Jackson

A tree in the park.

My excuse for a poor score:
the frisbee has teeth. And a mind.
It chose to rebel inside the wind–

I agree, of course, when you say
our food delivery job is temporary.
We have hours before we need

to clock in– an ordinary morning
straddling the Olentangy river.
Any way to get our minds off

routine: when scanning the field
for ticks, I find nothing but
excuses, for never becoming

the suit-and-tie my parents
wanted me to be, my score
well over par, another

wayward toss into the breeze
hopes for clarity on a journey
I know not where will lead.

Category: Featured, Poetry