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We’ve published this column about American life for several years, and we have finally found a poem about one of the great American pastimes, bowling. “The Big Lebowski” caught bowling on film, and this poem by Regan Huff of Georgia captures it in words.

Occurrence on Washburn Avenue

Alice’s first strike gets a pat on the back,

her second a cheer from Betty Woszinski

who’s just back from knee surgery.   Her third—

“A turkey!” Molly calls out—raises everyone’s eyes.

They clap.   Teresa looks up from the bar.

At the fourth the girls stop seeing their own pins wobble.

They watch the little X’s fill the row on Alice’s screen—

That’s five.   That’s six.   There’s a holy space

around her like a saint come down to bowl

with the Tuesday Ladies in Thorp, Wisconsin.

Teresa runs to get Al, and Fran calls Billy

at the Exxon.   The bar crowds with silent men.

No one’s cheering.   No one’s bowling now

except Alice’s team, rolling their balls

to advance the screen around to Alice, who’s stopped

even her nervous laugh, her face blank and smooth

with concentration.   It can’t go on

and then it does go on, the white bar

reading “Silver Dollar Chicken” lowering and clearing

nothing, then lowering and clearing nothing again.