he's arrived

he loved the game
of golf.
the long green fields
trimmed just so.
the eighteen holes of bliss.
no matter
the slice
or swing, or sand trap.
he played
all day and talked about it
all night.
I see him
still, banging his cleats
against
the sidewalk,
his face bronzed with sun.
his shoulders wide.
his large hands
swinging a putter once
more before
going home.
he's arrived.