Bowling

Bowling

Wednesday night they think why not
Go down to the alley.
Some bring their own balls and shoes,
Others will rent them there.
The balls are black or mauve or blue.
Each has three holes in them,
Differently spaced,
Like the emoji for shock.
Behind the counter, in cubbies
Like in an old post office,
The shoes are paired,
The sizes on the heel.
Smelly, ill-fitting shoes
That pray someone will forget to
Take them off and walk them 
Out into the dark.
The boy handing out the shoes, 
The girl stirring the molten nacho cheese,
Are so accustomed to it
They hardly hear the sound
Of the balls rumbling down the lanes
And the antique crash of the pins,
But if they focused their hearing
On any one lane,
They could tell you whether
Those playing were pros or amateurs.
The pros wear wrist braces,
Swear over anything 
Less than a strike or spare.
The amateurs turn away immediately
Upon letting go,
Covering their faces
As the ball finds the gutter.
Girls dragged here by boyfriends
Whose laps they sit on
In oversized hoodies.
No matter what happens, 
Nine pins appear at the end
Like geese in formation,
Two red bandages 
Wrapped around their throats.
No one knows where they go
When they’re knocked down,
Just that a machine descends
To pick up those that remain standing
So the fallen can be swept away.