I watch the bowlers load
their palms with the globes that will soon be thrown.
They’re readying to roll
the bowls, in hopes of attaining the throne.

We’re playing in a meet;
it’s a “boule”vard of bowling teams.
Competition teems;
we’re out to have some fun, homed in on the throne!

We crave the throne,
the bowler’s throne
for us alone;
match won’t be blown!

The shadows of evening haven’t started to creep;
the sallow shade of dusk is not yet seeping
into the sky above; sun is still shining;
like it, we are aglow

“Oh yeah…!”

Then it is starting time
our minds are focused on the straight line
of the lane that’s rimed
with moss that from recent rains has grown.

Team is doing fine;
we haven’t f**ked up yet, not tonight!
Our roles are aligned
as the balls we toss fall to the court, then roll.

We’re on a roll;
winning’s extolled.
“We’ll take a toll!”
we boast and bowl.

In shadows of evening are now starting to creep;
our sallow faces sunk; we take a beating.
We’ve drunk a bunch of wine, and we are whining.
The match is being blown!

We go down to defeat
on the “boule”vard of rolling teams.
Crushed now are our dreams.
Soon, away we’ll have slunk—no chance of the….

The shadows of defeat haunt us; we leave the meet.
The sallow shade of funk clouds facial features.
We pine that next time the prize will be likely.

Till then, we’ll grown and moan.