I ran into Jack
walking down the road
and figured I’d take a moment
just to goad him a bit,
so for my dime’s worth,
I asked him why his name rhymed.

He said “Holy Father I pray,
USA, onion bagels and a spot
did me in.

“The shape I’m in came from fame,
a Game,
no name.”

It’s worth a fin or five alive
and kicking rubber monkeys
just to see behind that back.”

“A shoulder blade.
No clothes,
no hat (she doesn’t do that)
just smoking cigarettes in the
dark,
good thing,
she might see the hair in the crack o’ my ass.
Sweet lass,
don’t need none of that.

A feck, a fuck, a freckle,
that’s it!"

I nodded sagely advised,
apprised, and disguised by my
stoic lack of laughter
in the face of fact.

But I wondered still,
why all this time,
his name did rhyme,
as he passed my shoulder
on dead feet.

06/28/2006

Posted on 06/29/2006
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers