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Crazy Golf

We played crazy golf
one balmy evening
by the seaside
when I was nine.

We hit little balls round barriers,
down chutes, through the gates
of fantasy castles,
anything to make torturous
the crooked course
with its tin flags from 1 to 18.

That night I woke
but wasn't really awake
crying from deep in a dream
'It wont go in!'
not understanding the words
until after they came out
only the desperate bursting of shame.

They were burnt into my memory
as they're in my mind
now as I start the back nine
of my life's miniature course
designed by someone,
one presumes, to test and amuse.

I roll this ball, this ball,
towards the hole,
will it fall - it teeters
on the lip - will it go in?

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