The embarrassing shine of new clubs,
clunking against my shoulder, I scan

the expanse of green for hidden etiquette,
mistakes already. The instructor, all good hair 

and fresh polos, while I am crow’s feet,
back pain, sweaty just from the drive over, 

and now the August sun, searing as it sets.
Disclaimers fly with broken tees: I apologize 

when I hit well and of course when I don’t. 
My thumb blisters before his lesson on grip, 

but my whole life I’ve adjusted my stance
so the grass will wear to dirt tonight.

AMY BOHLMAN is a Minnesota-based writer whose work has appeared in Ellipsis Zine, Minnesota Women’s Press, Five Minute Lit, and elsewhere. She has an MFA from Hamline University. Find her at www.ashortgirl.com