My head bows to meet the thumb-covered
inside of the already wet golf-shirt sleeve
to smudge the cheek already stained with
the tepid trail of tears that won’t stop flowing
The muster of the chosen loom in perpetuity
Calmly, patiently, serenely they wait.
I hope “Thank you” shall suffice
Again I smudge the stain that wont go away.
In my red, white and blue golf garb I can already smell s’mores and dogs and corn on the cob, squealing children in the pool.
One more smudge – then I’m off.