at the bowling alley…

At the bowling alley in my town, I get my own coffee and bowl a few to relax. Every week, Audrey, the shoe lady, watches and says, “I think you want ice cream!” “Darn straight!” I say. You can’t bowl at those fancy coffee places with their logos and biscotti. Just give me America’s jeans ripped at the knee, wool blankets for college football, Sunday dinners with family, and three sugars – plenty of cream for my fresh perked coffee in a thick rimmed mug that dribbles.

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