Driving Range
by Chris Abbate
Like monks in a scriptorium
leaning into their labor,
we are a perfect row of men,
each in his own hitting bay,
an oasis of concentration:
legs shoulder-width apart,
hands below the chin,
gripping the club gently, as if holding a bird.
Except for the occasional grunt,
feathered curse,
or sigh of disapproval,
we have taken a vow of silence.
We should have mastered it by now,
a simple rotation of the shoulders and hips,
a half-orbit around a white, dimpled sphere:
each ball a petition,
an agent of self-worth
we launch into this graveyard
of lofty expectations.
From a distance, one would wonder
what we are trying to prove
or disprove: a defiance of gravity,
a delaying of the inevitable descent to earth.
We have our own definitions
of madness, every swing closer
to the ten thousand required for perfection.
Hitting a golf ball should be easier than this,
easier than balancing a mortgage and marriage.
And sometimes it is,
like the times it feels effortless,
when the actor and action become one,
the way love feels at first,
the tiny moon of a man
rising above the tree line,
cresting into an arc of satisfaction,
a confluence of toil and desire
he points to and says,
Look. Look what I can do.
Chris Abbate’s poems have appeared in Connecticut River Review, Chagrin River Review, Timberline Review, and Comstock Review, among other journals. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net award and has received awards in the Nazim Hikmet and North Carolina Poetry Society poetry contests. His first book of poetry, Talk About God, was published by Main Street Rag in September 2017. Chris received his master’s in English from Southern Connecticut State University. He is a database programmer for a pharmaceutical company in Raleigh and since 2009 he has served as a volunteer coach for The First Tee of the Triangle golf program. Chris resides in Holly Springs, North Carolina.