The speaker of this six-line poem is hungry, but not for food. When thoughts of another person refuse to let up, the emptiness feels physical, a "craving" so sharp that they imagine eating "all the divots at the golf course." The poem's central idea is simple and painfully familiar: devotion that goes unrewarded can leave a person feeling like leftover material, something torn up and thrown aside in someone else's game. What makes it interesting is how little self-pity it dresses itself in. The pain arrives through a joke that isn't entirely a joke.
That divot image carries most of the poem's weight. A divot is the clump of turf a golfer's club rips from the ground, which makes it debris, the by-product of a swing and not the point of the game. The speaker wants to swallow a whole course's worth of it. Then comes the phrase "you done me dirt," and the logic clicks into place. "Done me dirt" is a colloquial way of saying someone has treated you badly, and the poem hands the idiom back to us literally: dirt is what the speaker has been served, so dirt is what the speaker craves. Eating dirt is also a long-standing expression for humiliation, and the poem seems to hover around that meaning too. Craving and humiliation become the same appetite.
The last three lines move from hunger to waiting. "I waited in line for you for so many seasons" turns the beloved into something like a popular tee time, with a queue and a patient crowd, and the speaker is one more person standing in it. "Seasons" stretches the waiting across a long stretch of time, which sets up the cruelty of the closing simile. After all that patience, the speaker is dismissed "like a drizzle in a golf game." A drizzle is not even a storm. It is a minor nuisance to be waited out under an umbrella. The poem suggests that the beloved's real attention belongs elsewhere, on the game, and that the speaker's years of feeling have registered as weather. There is also a quiet tense shift: the waiting is in the past ("waited"), but the rejection is in the present ("dismiss"), so the hurt is still going on as the poem is being spoken.
Formally, the poem is free verse with no regular rhyme or meter, and that suits its voice, which sounds like someone talking, not composing. The second line runs long and stops at "because," leaving the reason dangling across the line break before "you done me dirt" lands. The effect is of a thought that can't stop, which echoes the title. Sound does some quiet work too. The hard *d* of "divots," "done," "dirt," "dismiss" and "drizzle" threads the poem together, so the speaker's wounds and the beloved's offhandedness share the same blunt consonant. The word "you" appears four times in six lines, while the speaker slides from "I" to "me" whenever the beloved acts: "done me dirt," "dismiss me." Grammar reproduces the power imbalance.
The abrupt question "Remember the times?" is the poem's most exposed moment. It doesn't say which times, and it gets no answer. Judging by the surrounding bitterness, it reads as half accusation, half plea, a small tenderness that slips out before the speaker can stop it.
The poem is worth reading because it finds humor and hurt in the same image and won't separate them. The golf-course comparisons are funny, even a little absurd, but the absurdity is what makes the loneliness believable. Anyone who has replayed a rejection on a loop will recognize the exaggerated, slightly ridiculous way longing talks to itself. In six lines, the poem turns a tired subject into something specific and a bit startling, and it does so without any grand romantic vocabulary.