Best Friends

 

 

Best Friends

 

How could it be that friends like we,
Would find such fine camaraderie,
Such chance or fate, or falderal,
A love of sport, and a golf ball.

 

 

Yes, five plus twenty years we’ve spent,
Through rain and heat on grasses bent-
To find a ball under a hedge,
Or splash one from the water’s edge.

 

 

Now though the years we’ve found our drive,
Our game, our chips, our putts derive-
A daggered knife to win a bet,
With handicaps and counted net.

 

 

Most knees and elbows; shoulders well,
No ling’ring aches or joints that swell,
With no excuses one and all,
Just shut your mouth and hit the ball.

 

 

And in the nights the bars and drinks,
Few snippets of what each man thinks,
We talk of kids, our lovely wife,
Some business and our family life.

 

 

Wee morning hours; bed finally,
Some dreams are drawn toward dawning tee,
Yet, every year the story ends,
We’ve found the best in these best friends.

 

 

Peter Lowell Paulson
September 1, 2012