My friend Kieron left for Thailand today. We were supposed to go and see him a couple of days ago. So we popped on a train and went to play mini-golf. He never showed up, got caught up somewhere, so I've not had a chance to say bye to him. He doesn't read poetry, although two years ago he told us he doesn't "do the Southern hemisphere" so hopefully he'll change his mind one day.
Oh and for those who wish to know, I lost miserably, eight over par.
This is a two part poem.
One for Kieron
We wait for you with clubs and balls
and when we're sure you won't show
we tee off, in plastic Incan paradise.
Toast to you with bottled coke
and a bag of chocolate.
When you phone and say you'll be
running late, we share knowing nods
before knocking a ball into
bathroom carpeted rough.
You phone again, eighteenth hole.
You won't be making it,
but we understand and drink
flat coke in your honour.