When the bowler died, his bar posted

When the bowler died, his local bar posted
it—his memorial above the neon beer in white out
fluorescence,
glowing in name once again. With great and good they toasted
George, his game, his buy-a-round of stout
common sense

he buffed and polished in life. He rolled a few nights a week,
tossed a mean ball, cracked pins with a
vicious twirl—
the callous thumb angled in for spin and mind to seek
time away from the nag, the million questions, and his workaday
frame that hurls

toward everyone’s gold watch party and company cake,
paid in full by conscientious years of social committee dues.
Never to see
the perfect game with the snackbar cheer awake,
he wore three hundred shoes in dreams—the jester hues
like heaven’s private alley.