The lights flicker a warning:
Last call at the bowling alley.
We’re uncomfortable in our molded plastic seats
and the bottom of our beer-soaked plastic cups.
We’re getting excited and slur-word
while asking the hard-hitting questions like:
Why are bowling shoes two different colors?
and how can anyone truly hate Taylor Swift?
You’re silently planning our wedding,
and naming our unborn children.
I’m elbow deep in one of those sweaty rolling hot dogs
the bowling alley dude was just about to throw out.
“TALK ABOUT GOOD TIMING, EH?”