maybe ...

maybe, maybe not

a light traffic
moves
wetly at distance,
its tires slapping
macadam,

but without overt
animosity.

a bit chilly
this Sunday morning.

fog shrouds
the golf course
across the creek.

the ground wet,
clouds maneuver
aloft; no sun.

a colony
of tiny wild
violets
displays green leaf
and shy, half-closed
flower
at backyard
fringe.

a hawk calls
shrilly;

two cheery black-cap
chickadees flit
about and keep pace
with me as I walk
the extended yard

with my one hand
cotton-gloved,
the other held
nude prisoner
in a front jeans
tight pocket.

the season yet young,
early-morning
golfers can't shoot straight;

and

although I don't golf,
I stoop to pick up,
here and there,
a summed total of
three glinting balls---

Titleists all---

to add to
my forever-
growing hoard.

I'm not looking
for them,
you understand;
they aim
their glints at me
from their incessant
lies.

on my laggard
return, a soft
chick-a-dee-dee-dee!
follows me
through the door
and into the house.

a hollow thought:

I wonder,
today will I check
my blood pressure?

maybe,
maybe not.