Senior Bowling

24 January 2007 at 1:54 pm (2000s, Poetry, Undated)

In my old age, I’ve become a bowling alley bum,
straining for that elusive 200 game, making
new friends in the daytime senior’s leagues.
Sometimes, I wonder how some of us do it,
sometimes I even wonder why. There’s
Anna Mae, who seems barely able to lift
her nine-pound alley ball that takes forever
to get to the pins once she has dropped it on the lane
and John whose hands are so twisted he doesn’t
care to shake hands anymore. There are a couple
of us diabetics, comparing notes on sugar levels,
a bunch of us with prostate cancer, checking out
the various treatments our doctors put us through.

It seems as if we’re signing get-well cards
every other week and sharing birthday cake
at least as often, hearing those announcements
about the bowlers who won’t be coming back.
Dear Grace who, at 86, bowled in every league,
being diagnosed with diabetes only to learn
a few weeks later she had cancer of the pancreas,
passing on a few weeks after that. I wonder what became
of Dottie, who coughed her way forward, leaving
her cigarette in the ash tray as she inched
toward the lane? My friend Jim, who had his left hip
replaced a couple of months ago is now back
in the hospital with a cerebral aneurysm.

I haven’t been able to visit him so far. He’s in
intensive care. Don had to drop out because
he’s lost his eyesight. That didn’t seem to stop
Harry, who depends on Joe to tell him where
the pins are after his first ball. I worry about
Fred, who’s just turned 90 and looks very pale
and tired but keeps showing up three times
a week. Roger collapsed Tuesday morning
and had to go by ambulance to the hospital,
Marsha following in their car. Carlo Caruso
bowled a 200 game at 92, two days later he died
in his sleep. Mom warned me not to hang out in
bowling alleys. I wonder if this were why.