And who could explain why tonight
a bowling alley opened up inside my heart
and an invisible hand kept sending the ball down
the lane and it was strike after strike after strike.
The gutters, so empty, decided to get up
and play, too, and we all drank a beer
and toasted to the way strange things happen.
Oddly enough, I was chopping carrots and kale
this whole time, and could not help myself
from feeling as if I should celebrate.
Outside, the tips of the mesas
were pink, fleeting, of course, but it left
an indelible stamp on me, and meanwhile,
as the yellow onions made me cry,
the sound of ten pins crashing down
came again and again
and again, and I just
couldn’t shake this feeling
that something wonderful was happening,
the scent of garlic filling the room, the sky
turning gray, turning black.
