the stardust alley

the bowling alley
was at one point
in your young
and restless life
the center
of your universe.
the pin ball machines
banging brightly
in the arcade,
the constant roll of
balls colliding with
pins, both duck and ten.
the smell of limp
shoes with sizes in
large numbers on
the back, being sprayed
with lilac.
the juke box in
the lounge playing
dusty springfield
and smokey robiinson.
there was a barber
shop too, with liquid
blue jars full
of long black combs,
big leather seats
and wall length mirrors
where you could watch
the clipping go on,
and white sheets
to catch the brown
cut hair across
your brylcremed brow.
it was noisy and loud,
cigarette smoke
filled the cavernous
hall. the smell of beer
and French fries.
the bowling shirts
and gloves, the bags
with names inscripted
on, buddy, or lucy.
the king, or ike,
sometimes a fight would
break out,
taking it outside
where the moon gave light
to the parking lot
brawl, then back inside,
back to the music,
back to the wonder
of a long good night.