Nit Picks

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.