And each morning, early, between the watching and the tweeting,
he grooms his yellowing locks, the frontal swirl, sides and back
hanging straight, like the fringe on granny’s lampshade gathering
dust up there with the bats in the attic,
he grooms his hair with the patient attention of the greenskeeper
who must mow the putting greens daily and apply, at intervals,
the fungicides, pesticides, herbicides, among other chemicals,
required to keep the putting greens green
so that not a bee, nor fly nor beetle nor moth, will appear on the green
to distract the putter’s attention from the task at hand once the hair
has been groomed and the whites donned, making the golfer
in this respect only resemble a surgeon
preparing to operate once the grooming is done, the uniform donned,
and the white shoes’ laces tied, placing pressure on the rolled dough
of the abdomen as, while tying each knot, he must stoop low
over the amplitudinous investment in self,
until at last, red cap on yellowish hair, he is ready to step onto the green,
his own piece of nirvana, and place a ball on a peg, straighten with a sigh,
and, after shifting his weight and assessing the fairway,
settle down to the business of addressing a ball.
Of him it can truly
be said he is all bully
and no pulpit,
a bully who blames others
when he is the culprit,
a master of ballyhoo
who blows his own trumpet,
and rules by tantrum and tweet.
What’s to be done with a leader
who leads us backward step by step?
store item in a cool, dry place
pending return to sender.