Gone eight months, I still write his name 
on my scorecard. He’d shake his fist
after each flubbed shot—one off a tree, 
two in the woods, driving his ball 

out of bounds, into traps, repeatedly
exceeding the cup with his putts, 
but persisting—Next one goes in.
He couldn’t golf a lick,

nor could he tally the truth of it. 
What did you take on this hole, Pop?
Leaning over, he’d pin a tee
to wet grass, a long silent reaching

into a well of denial—not duplicity I hoped—
Put me down for five, when I knew he’d shot ten.
He’d address the ball, intent on hitting 
its sweet spot, head down, shoulders square,

his whole body focused on one
of his last moments, hope undimmed,
while I parred my way into a loss
I never saw coming. 

Michael Steffen is a graduate of the MFA writing program at Vermont College and the author of three poetry collections. Individual poems have appeared or will appear soon in Poetry, Chiron Review, Thimble, Lily Poetry Review, The Chestnut Review and other journals.