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Winter Golf

The fairway is frozen —
No one on the course
save for us and
the trio on thirteen.
Fred strangles a five iron —
His ball sails through
the biting wind
and dead centers the green.
I pull a two from my bag —
Wonder how it
might have been different,
had I struck
before she got tired of waiting?
Not toyed with her affections?
Not considered her beneath me?
Your turn, Fred calls,
his words nearly carried off
by a gust out of Canada.
I stare down at my ball,
nestled on a
sliver of ice.
It smiles up at me
and says,
You will never reach
the green.
And I know it’s right.

—
John Attanas is a writer based in New York City. His poetry has been published in numerous journals, most recently The Bluebird Word, Hawaii Pacific Review, and Abandoned Mine. In 2025, he earned an M.F.A. from the City College of New York.

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