For Linda & Stephen Lee, 25 Years
Don't ask me who I am — she sang it gold,
black hair a curtain, Hong Kong at her feet.
He wasn't loud. He wasn't brash or bold.
He simply showed up with something good to eat.
Now Discovery Bay, three times a week:
he drives, then vanishes into the rough
while birdies wait on greens he'll never seek —
one ball was never, ever quite enough.
Stephen Lee! She shouts across the ravine.
He surfaces with fifty grimy pearls,
pockets bulging, grinning like a fiend
who'd rather rescue strangers' shanked-off hurls.
He fills the plates; she fills the room with song.
Here's to the next twenty-five — thousand golf balls strong.