Bowling with Diane Keaton

Diane Keaton (Photograph by Annie Leibovitz)

Friday night, 80s halcyon,
a memory of October bowling.
The suburban lanes loud
with kids and kinetic release
of balls slamming on maple.
My delivery pre-amateur,
pre-Lebowski revival.
I have no footwork, no sense
of release, fingers sweaty
in the grips, resin dropping
with a hollow boom
followed by derision 
from more adept friends.

I remember reading about bowler superstitions: Lucky shoes, towels, and socks  or prayers and chants. We just saw “Baby Boom” – executive Diane Keaton saddled with unexpected baby  altering her corporate ambitions – and since Diane has been  good in everything forever, I chose her. On every approach, perfecting my four-step, under my breath – Diane Keaton, Diane Keaton, Diane Keaton – and the ball lightens, rolls straight, connects dead center on the headpin, then it's strike after strike all night. Four decades flown, and I don’t bowl often, but Diane is still the mantra. And when she dies, I find myself in the supermarket aisle, doctor’s office, subway, watching hellish newscasts  – Diane Keaton, Diane Keaton, Diane Keaton. A charm against the inconceivable,  the bowling gods giving and taking away,  another cursed split in a year full of gutters.

My poetry output has been very minimal this year, but after Diane Keaton left us last weekend, I started to work on this. It's still in "first draft" mode, but since I'm not really submitting to journals anymore, or honing at open mics, you get to be my test audience.