Westside Lanes

A ragged horse
nap a little matted,
the place smells of
keeping mildew
at bay. Kids’ shouts
ricochet, air hockey
pucks, arcade cars
off the shut mouths
of staff who say
nothing first
then little else.
Saloonish blue
pool tables under
coned lights, casino
lounge, then several
single-digit
birthdays and
rainbow cake.
A thickness
to the ambience
that accommodates
both prospects,
innocent and less so.
A milk-eyed nimbus
we’ll dismount
into afternoon. And
when I walk to the car
under downpour,
toddler straddling
my hip, it’s with
a sense of loss
but not of youth.
Of the distinction
between the two.