There’s a man by himself, “bowling alone.”
It’s just his name on the screen, cut in half at the first vowel,
Followed by thatched crosses for his rolling strikes
Punctuated with lemonade sips through a bendy straw.

He’s unfazed by the cheers from other lanes,
A high-fiving family of four on one side,
Six teenagers, laughing at every gutter throw
And seven-ten split on the other.

To him, without his watch, his credit card, his mobile phone,
It’s not “bowling alone.”
It’s just bowling.

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