Dave Kingman, A Small-Town Bowling Alley

Dave Kingman, a small-town
bowling alley with
wood paneling petrified
into real wood
food service staple colors
magenta and teal
coalesced into a single ashen hue
the treble of hair metal
whispered overhead
through tinny speakers

Dave Kingman, a rattle of knocked-down
bowling pin Budweisers
blurry group photographs all
duckfaces and teeth
eyeshadow twinkling like dying stars
twittering with bird-laughter
from the backs of rhinos
casting out slow drunken mute
furtive looks
eyes hunting for eyes

Dave Kingman, a plain of stained
colorless carpet
the urine-soaked restroom tile
the empty paper towel dispenser
hands wiped on jeans
and learning the chick with the tube top
 left ten minutes ago
the branches whithering
tomorrow already pressing
at the temples

Dave Kingman, a single pull-tab
at the end of the night
torn mechanically
liberty bell
liberty bell