The Bowler.

Island of fat trees in the park

Branches hanging low to make a fortress

For kids and others


The trees half in half out

Scratching at the red tin shelter

For the old bowlers


Pin stripes of pee green lawn

Framed by a chalky rectangle

And a fence that would only keep an old man in

Starched and tipsy


Crumpled forms in the fortress

A dark nest for the destitute

Of cardboard and weed and drink


Warm daylit oblivion huddle

Next to the gentle clack of the jack

Until the game is over and

Hard night comes with cold lungs

And nocturnal stir and trudge till

Dawn and another end.