Dad takes me to a bar,
gives me a buck to shake shuffle wax
on the shiny deck of the bowling machine.
I concentrate, my hand on the cool metal puck
testing the friction before the push and then
the striking of the pins, and the whir
of spinning numbers. I’m careful to stay
behind the foul line. Dad’s expecting me
to play by the rules. He says China’s
been dumping steel and he must drive
sixty miles to his temporary job
since he’s been laid-off from the mill.
When he comes home it’s late at night
and he leaves early the next morning so,
I only see him on weekends of fried food,
cigarette smoke, cream soda, Patsy Cline
on the juke, the paroxysm of flashing lights,
clanks, and pings from the bowling machine,
the balm of hot electronics, the cool feel
of the puck, breaching the foul line
when dad’s not looking, and then,
like slow burning rust on the polished
surface of a dream, I serve slow time
in the round jail of a clock until the next
dizzying, spinning, evening of a score.
