April Littrell
Golf Shack
there are times when
a blue awning
on a slender pole
far back between two trees
kisses drops of rain
makes hair stand atop the knees
the daisies droop oh dreary day
yet hold their gold
the gold’s to stay
boulders bould and benches weep
bring the night it is to keep
Written c. summer 2014 at a mini golf course I worked at behind the counter, doling out clubs and chipped ice with sugar syrup. I read, did push-ups, and played games on a clunky laptop to pass the time. Some days I’d work with a friendly, weathered woman named Ginger who once traded a cigarette for a boat of fries at the adjoining restaurant.
Many familiar faces came through. There was an encounter with a therapist I’d seen once or twice—I forget why but it probably had something to do with appeasing my mother. We pretended we didn’t know each other, though maybe it was just me pretending and she never even recognized me.
Besides Ginger, there was a college girl named Amy1 who dreamt of working as a museum curator. She’d regale me with historical happenings to help pass the time. It was quite a waste to pay more than one person to work the shack. Today, many years later, I think the restaurant hands out clubs. Minus one summer job for the listless teen.
I’m not sure if I should be using real names. I’d feel bad jeopardizing anyone’s privacy. But the name Ginger is too lovely not to use and perfectly describes Ginger. She was potent and had a definite presence, could calm your stomach and really neutralize your palate. Amy was none other than Amy the Curator. Any other name would be an injustice. And then there was Ben, who I’d been in a musical with in high school. The transient souls of the shack.↩︎