Bowling

 

It may be that a gutter

is the best place for me

a tunnel of protection

from the rumble and crash

created by competitive

hard-hitters more tenacious

and resilient than I think I am.

 

In my baby blue bedroom

I would linger under sheets

as long as I dared until

the threat left the house

even if it meant I would be late.

One morning when I thought

the coast was clear

 

I felt him behind me

and ‘slipped’ down stairs

shoulder scraped

against textured stucco

knees landing hard on cold tile.

I cried on my way to school

but made it before the bell.

 

He pouted when he bowled

badly, a sulking tantrum

red faced tears in front of

strangers, a collapse

I should have enjoyed but

it confused me, his suffering

the softness I wanted access to.

 

He hardens up, goes on to make

millions from loopholes,

calls it “the game.” I stay home

wrestling with poems of self-doubt

and wonder whether my life tells a story

of squandered potential or one in which

I finally find my groove.