sometimes late at night
–when the outings are over
and only innings remain–
when the cheese toast
crafted from wondrously
white bread is smooshed
against his back
(his)
open face eyeing
sodden red-checked paper cloths
cracked plastic glasses
and shadows on the wall–
Nick’s picks seem
unfulfilling
–for all they stuff a
shallow wicker basket well–
and he questions his choices
questions that go unanswered
since molded Jello rings
seldom know
–for all they call the shots.
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