Dad’s Bowling Buddy
He always reminded me of an old hound dog.
The way his face drooped, eyes yellow and bloodshot.
His lips puffy, the bottom one sticking out.
Polyester polo with pocket protector and houndstooth trousers,
his words slurred when he gave me money
for a candy bar and Coke.
Bowling pins always falling in the background,
cigarette smoke and Limburger cheese. A swizzle stick
forever sticking out of his glass of ice and amber liquid.
Dad followed him home most nights, his car
swerving in front of us, mostly slow but sometimes
the speed limit, me tracing his path with my finger on the dash.
I remember going to his house once. Manicured lawn
that felt like carpet. A kidney-shaped pool, warm,
with a light shining under the water.
Chris Wood resides in Tennessee with her husband and several fur babies. She works as a lease maintenance manager for a real estate management company, and is a member of the Chattanooga Writers’ Guild, where she currently serves as their treasurer. Her work has appeared in several journals and publications, including Poetry Quarterly, Haiku Journal, and Quill and Parchment.
Image Credit: Abstract image [unsplash/Milad Fakurian]