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Last Frame
by Bruce W Niedt
When I go out
let it be as a bowling ball:
sixteen-pound, resin-polished,
black as a January night.
Lob me down
that smooth varnished lane,
hardwood rumble,
a graceful arc
scattering ten pins with
cacophonous clatter,
valedictory strike,
X in the box, a perfect frame.
Dont wait for me
at the ball return.
03/11/2003 Author's Note: [First published in Schuylkill Valley Journal, Fall 2004; also nominated by the editors for a Pushcart Prize.]
Posted on 03/11/2003
Copyright © 2025 Bruce W Niedt
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