The Little Thunder Poem by Brian King

Hands are slippery, rubbery, cold
Beyond anything WD-40 could do.
Eyes are determined, burning, gold.
Posture is rigid, steel, no time for snafu.

The ball is heavy stone, unable to be moved.
Legs are gelatin, collapsing, surely falling
Floor feels broken, unsafe, grooved.
Crowd is loud, powerful, calling.

Arms are shaking, trembling, about to fail.
Hair is intrusive, annoying, sticky.
Vomit is coming, need a bucket or pail.
Scoresheet says Cris, Brian, Ricky.

Shot must be perfect, flawless, flush.
It is for Mom, my team, me.
I cough, sneeze, blush.
I aim at pins, skittles, a little tree.

My turn is soon, eminent, now.
I rise, stand, come to my feet.
I wonder where, when, how.
All are spectating, spying, seeing my feat.

My ball is heavy, shiny, blue.
My breaths are shallow, rapid, fast.
I am stuck by fear, anxiety, glue.
I am here, arrived, on the approach at last.

I pick up the ball, aim, throw.
The result is ten, diez, strike.
My burden is begun, started, two thirds to go.
There are claps, cheers, this is something they like.

Shot two, dos, the middle.
Brooklyn, a mistake, on the wrong side.
Screams, shouts, everyone loses it a little.
It hits, it carries, my ball saved my hide.

Cheers, laughter, one strike to go.
Tension has built, accumulated, been put on me.
The crowd wants a miracle, magic, they won't be told no.
Their hopes are pure, warm, they want something to see.

The last ball, tres, doce in this whole race.
The money shot, the golden throw, thanksgiving turkey.
I keep a stiff lip, a thousand mile stare, a stoic face.
The immediate future is a mystery, scary, murky.

I step forward, I aim briefly, I throw.
My eyes water, I fall over, I almost die.
The shot is out, deployed, a blue bomb in white snow.
The pins fall slowly, lamely, but all of them fly.

Pandemonium, chaos, bloodly hell.
My accomplishment is the cause, the root, to blame.
Cheering continues too long, far past welcome, after the last pin fell.
I have bowled 12 in a row,300, a perfect game.