A pin setter in high school days
he kicks the roundness of walnuts
dropped onto a street in a neighborhood
lush with autumn trees
At the top of the asphalt hill
the explosion of pins still in his head,
he picks walnuts off the pavement
bounces them in his hands,
bowls them between curbs
No strikes here, no second chances,
no spares or perfect games
Some balls bounce onto lawns,
others into sewer grates, gutters,
or stub against a pebble
After a final frame, back inside his house,
still dressed in windbreaker and scarf,
he squints through the living room window
at two squirrels with nuts between paws
poised for their turn at a perfect game