Phony Altruism
Man without a home
& the altruists are
getting restless.
Ten bucks for
a poor veteran—eases
the mind of those who
can quote vespers.
Sin? Throw that first
stone through a glass mirage.
The deprived Iraq soldier
just wanted a hug, someone
to converse with.
Maybe a bed…
Haughty praise from
the following
and a coin
in the collection
plate—loses its
ideals when the vagrant’s
beard filles with gnats.
Then the limp dies
without any remembrance.
A Place
The Chesterfield Gorge Trail is the stop where I ponder life. Where, I sometimes, glorify death. Wishing I was twenty years old again, playing Left Tackle. Jot down thoughts that fail to connect with whispers that predict senseless possibilities…
Playing Mini-Golf Alone in Mid-October
A long, dry summer has officially pronounced
its end… succumbing to an orange sun that now
fell in mid-October
In the air, I could inhale the imminent arrival of fall’s cold winds, chatter of early Thanksgiving plans among family, the harsh realities of another New England winter chill.
Driving alone along Route 29 in northern New Hampshire, the streets
are bare on a Tuesday, the only establishment open is a mini golf
course that has no patrons to call its own.
With nothing to do, I pull over to the parking lot, fixing to try my hand
at my short game skills…can’t embarrass myself to bad…I’m the only one here.
As I approach the wagon to grab my putter & ball. The man is busy packing up the rest
of the equipment.
“You’re the last one for me this season, mister.” He tells me, hurried to close the place for the winter. “Ready to get going to Florida after you’re done.”
“Can’t complain though, tourist season was great this year.”
I give him a nod of acknowledgement, and head to hole number 1, moving the cascade of
leaves in front of my ball placement.
I strike the ball, it takes two caroms, then settles at a right angle towards the hole.
It takes me two shots to sink my par. Which is what I did throughout the other 17 holes.
Finally, the last hole. I glance back at the man who is impatiently watching me to finish. I took my last shot, which, as every putt-putt veteran knows, is the final one.
The ball is swallowed by a big dinosaur head, and the game is over.
I take my putter back to the owner, who quickly asks how I did.
“Ok, I guess,” I answered.
He really didn’t care. Taking the putter from my hand, he threw it into the trailer, gave me a wave, and was gone.
While I was walking to my car, the carpenter company was already ripping the greens off the
course, filing down the boards—getting ready for next year’s players.
Now, I had to figure out what to do with the 4 PM darkness, seasonal affective disorder, Christmas & New Year bullshit, February Northeasters, and long, drawn out slow spring thaws that were on the horizon for the next four months.
While the Mini-Golf owner was counting the days until he was back in the Florida Keys, drinking beer on the beach, & laughing at New Hampshire weather reports.
Dan Provost’s poetry has been published both online and in print since 1993. He is the author of 17 books/ chapbooks, including two in 2025: Getting Your Bell Rung (Luchador Press) and Notes from the Other Side of the Blanket (Anxiety Press). His work has been nominated for The Best of the Net three times, and he has read his poetry throughout the United States. He lives in Keene, New Hampshire, with his wife, Laura, and his dog, Bella.