So I’m trying to write this epic article for my editor/writer relationship class that reveals nothing important about anything; the pitch sounded so much better than what it’s turning out to be. You see, I’m writing a sort of “scenes from a bowling alley” piece written by going to a 24-hour bowling alley several times throughout the course of the 24-hour bowling period. I started at 12 p.m. when I bought my shoes earlier yesterday (which I suppose is correct considering it’s 2 a.m. on Sunday). Then I went back around 5 (because I was told the place would be inhabited by birthday parties and bowling leagues for most of the afternoon), then again at 9: 30 p.m., and now I’m sitting, waiting, wishing it is 4 a.m. already so I can get back to my observational hell. That’s all it really is. It’s uninteresting and, really, the only thing I figured out is that even with brand new bowling shoes, I still suck at bowling compared to my former high school self (which was still not that great). In the words of my high school psychology teacher (with added chanting from classmates) who dubbed me Bowling Chick for the rest of the semester of 2004, “Roll, roll, roll, roll….”
Gosh darn it, I suppose he’s right.
An on-the-spot poem about bowling
written between 2:05 a.m. and 2:13 a.m. on October 17, 2010
Hello, heavy pin,
you fooled me
into believing I’d thrown a strike
But I saw you, finger protruding from the
wooden lane, darkened by
gutter shadows and your ten-pin brothers
laughing above your head
then at you.
Because, heavy pin,
you fooled me,
but spared me
the second time around.