On his birthday, every year,
his brother-in-law, Milwaukee brewed,
takes him bowling at the Big Ten Lanes.
Every year, by the third frame,
he wants wine in a glass,
Coltrane’s Blue Train, and pot.
This year he plans to
write something he started this summer,
when his lawn died, and he had to fire a friend to save his grass.
A car will roll by mid-morning, he will lose his train of thought,
his allergies will make it hard to think,
his daughter will need him to kill a bug,
but when it’s time to bowl, he will
let the phone scream and scream,
then write some more, this manly man.