Bowling

Pens over pencils,
red claw marks, indelible,
we leave, or do not.

We do not bud, or flower.
The leaves shook loose in thunder.

Just, what would you do?
Sing scales, to show the way up.
They stole the Stairway.

Nothing to believe in, now,
just bowling for coat hangers.

Of all vain words to say,
and all pregnant pauses:
“The ‘Cat God’ strikes again!”