April 14, 2023Today My Father Should Be at The Score
marking out the route,
pulling out road signs from the back of the car—
road bowling in progress—
a high viz jacket thrown about him
to keep the Ból Chumann crowd quiet.
He should be meeting the lads, his mates arriving
over the brow after milking the cows, walking the dogs,
doing a stint at the back wall of the church for Mass.
He should be handing over cash, or totting the running tab,
giving 20 to Tim, Joe, or Jimmy
and placing their communal bet, backing their player.
He should be tearing fresh grass from the ditch
and shouting back at the crowd to stay in out of the way.
He should be watching someone he’s known all his life
take an exuberant run,
a mighty lift into the air,
arm rotating,
swinging the solid iron ball in their fist,
circulating this living heat.
He should be watching this ball, this bowl
bullet through the air.
He should be eyeing the drop,
the land on the tar road
and be arriving at the drop spot to mark it
with a fistful of freshly ripped grass
and he should be calling, calling on
for the next player to come up
to the starting spot
and not be holding the whole bloody show up.
He should be watching the sparring pair
throw their bowls in sequential turns
eyeing their run, loft, flight of the ball
and the land,
the flint chink spark of metal on tar road.
He should be critiquing throws
with a gut full of intuition,
decades of living the run, launch, fly,
ball landing,
the soft roll to the edge of the ditch
or deep crash within the briars of the ditch.
He should be at the finish line shouting for the winner.
He should be shaking hands,
banging backs,
pocketing his share of the winnings.
He should be on the high stool in Cookies,
a creamy head settling on his pint of Guinness
and the retelling of it all
just beginning.
from #79 - Spring 2023