Bowling
A Poem
Quiet.
Strike.
Spare.
The machine whirrs, spitting
out balls, spitting out pins.
Spitting out memories.
My grandfather dropping, not
throwing, the ball.
My grandmother’s holding the ball,
making strikes without remembering
the game.
And me,
my writing, breathing to think,
thinking to breathe, daydreaming
recipes and daydreaming to dream.
Dream to remember.
Remember to breathe.
