I’m watching a documentary about Tiger Woods.
His Dad is comparing his son
to Buddha and Gandhi and predicting
his humanitarian gifts to the world.
It’s 9am. The birdies have sung their songs.
Your head is an awkward white ball,
there’s a green stain on your sloth jumper
and you have the TV remote in your wet mouth.
The bags under my eyes are bunkers.
Your finger strokes the rough patch on my elbow.
We sit peacefully in our divine mediocrity.

© Carl Burkitt 2021