Why I live in terror of bowling shirts.

it's the lozenge-sucking orange of them

that makes me sweat

that waves hello and suffocates me

like too much of the family at dinner

as I watch my parents divide the house

the way children do

with Halloween candy they don't like

bowling shirts are so cheerily polyester

they land a minimum wage job

they pay the rent and buy plastic

ponds with ducks to quack

on the tidy lawns of their trailers

let's drink too many beers

with greasy bacon fingers

on Monday nights they glow

like poisonous orangeade

in the TV lighting

the kids bring friends home

the football game is on

and bowls of cheetos, corn nuts

TV guides well-thumbed

bowling shirts stretch over pot bellies

perma-press slacks and fuzz balls

of shag carpet cling

must be removed with clever strips

of scotch tape

I can always imagine MY NAME

shortened to Kathi

in bright purple stitching

square above the left breast pocket

a bowling shirt hangs in my closet

calling: "Hi!

Come on in.

Welcome home!"

Kathleen Lohr

Kathleen Lohr lives in the San Fernando Valley with her husband Alan and a grey tabby cat.

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