Writing without my glasses I can see the blue lines,
the white spaces, but the words are blurred,
though my pen knows these familiar tracks
on the page, my efforts resembling
a child’s birthday party at the bowling alley,
where rubber bumpers in the gutters of the lanes
guide the ball to the pins, promising the topple
of at least one, however slow and lazy
the meander down the slick, polished alley, the ball
almost stopping at times, the child and her friends
cheering wildly, GO! GO! even blowing, puffing—
as if a collective breath would be enough to propel
an eight pound ball to an exact strike between
the one pin and the two, that sweet pocket that activates
the synchronized tumble of all ten, which will teeter,
slow motion, like drunks in the glare of daylight
who’ve come from a dimly lit bar, tottering and laughing
and not succeeding in staying upright.