John F. McCullagh

(09/28/1954 / Flushing)

I am the Ball


Vile stubby fingers invading all my holes,
You take my body in your chubby hands.
You swing me in an arc along your side
And violently heave me in the air.
I crash down on a track of polished wood
And dizzily set off for parts unknown.
I smash into a bunch of wooden pins-
The seven and the ten I leave alone.
A spinning wheel prevents me from escape
And launches me back again to where you wait.
Though you will try your best I’d have to bet
The split I left is not one you can make.

Submitted: Sunday, October 13, 2013
Edited: Friday, October 25, 2013
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Poet's Notes about The Poem

A cunning bowling ball thwarts my efforts to get a strike or a spare.

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