Photo by Benjamin Faust on Unsplash

Nineteen-seventy-three

I remember Drift Away — the song
that played over again above the pins
as we laid down twelve-pound rubber balls
and sent them crazy down the lane. Did you
have some design in mind when you took
me to the line each week? Was it planned
father-son bonding time, or did
you only want to have some fun with
your son? All I can recall as
I grow old was that you taught me how
to bowl (and songs that played incessantly).
I don’t believe I ever thanked you for
the trips to Kilgore; for teaching me
how to hold the ball, walk the walk,
set it down and let it fly. Sometimes
at night I hear the rolling thunder on
the lanes as the pins explode to
the strains of Dobie Gray’s Drift Away.

To support the poet’s benign coffee addiction: Coffee.