What is it about bowling that makes it so exciting? Is it that distant grouping of soldier pins, so impudent and perfect? Is it their shape, so curvy and sensuous? Or perhaps they remind you of a street gang, daring you to hit them, standing out in the open, uncaring and brave.
No, it is the violence. Where else can you get rid of your secret mental urgings to strike back at your insidious foes, to smash them into smitherines for what they did to you? All the better that they can not strike back. You were the vulnerable one smitten when your back was turned, laid low by a sucker punch below the belt.
But, short of going to jail, there is no way for you to get even. If you did, you'd be just as bad as they. No, you're a lady and ladies do not hit back.
So, go ahead, take aim, disturb their sleep a little. Boy, that felt good. But, wait, suppose they have feelings, too? I never thought of that.
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Ten pins standing at attention,
Quiv'ring at the slightest mention
Of that spherical black lightning --
Three eyes vacant, twisting, fright'ning.
With deadly aim it bursts asunder
Their peaceful stance and plows them under.
White bodies flying, crashing,
No mercy shown, no love, no caring.
One club is grazed and starts to topple,
But from the side a nasty pop'll
Send it spinning down the pike.
A voice is screaming, "I got a strike!".
Resignation then sets in:
They get right up -- to fall again.
I write poetry for the masses. No death and grief for me. Let me know what you think.
