Playing Golf At Midnight Poem by Sonny Rainshine

Playing golf in the moonlight,
at midnight, at night, when light
cannot be trusted, when sight
deceives, it can’t be right.

He drives the sphere with the craters
like the moon, white like the moon,
orbiting like the moon; soon
it will collide with grass or sand, and

the black night will swallow the white
moon and the driving sphere
and no one will know where
went the white and where went the black
and why.

And after the ball has divorced its tee
and after the moon laughs
and retires behind the roofs
of the neighborhood houses,
the silence of the green
and the heartbreaking loveliness
of the green emerge and converge
and here in the suburban
wilderness, the only home he has,
he sees for the first time
how clouds absorb
and disperse
the light of the moon.