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.
Wow. This is amazing and heart breaking.