by James Croal Jackson
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.