We’ve trekked and thrown 27 holes, and now
satisfied exhaustion yawns and stretches out
the conversation’s lull–

bonfire sparks drift up, wink with stars–

across the field, sleeping bags wait in tents.

Then Troy Boy shouts    
            Either let’s talk about something intellectual or let’s wrassle!

It’s like a call to arms for these men who grew up together–

two, three friends jump him, campchair collapsing sideways,
they tumble into the dark, laughter growls from the tangle
of hands and arms and legs grappling on the ground–

and the response a wordless, exuberant reflex–

hook arms around necks, pull together heads
smelling of woodsmoke and sweat,
and hold on to one another,
hold off the end of the day.