Jack, or was it Jake?

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I.

Jack. Or Jake. I don’t exactly know for sure, ’cause everybody used to call the cat one or the other.

One night old Paul’d be in and see the skinny cat hangin’ out in his usual spot at the end of the counter. He’d holler, “How you been, Jake?” And cat would nod and say somethin’ like, “Not bad,” or what have you. Continue reading

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transitory optimism

This isn’t my game anymore
I was told to go home
I kick the ball around once in a while still
But I stopped playing the game
They don’t want me in
Unless I follow the rules
And make a line for the pros
But it’s not my game
I’m no pro
I don’t follow the rules
I shouldn’t play
It was good that I got out
Before I got injured
Or worse; got really good at playing
I have a new gig, a new game
One with fewer rules
No coaches, bosses or teammates
This is my game now
And when though I’m still a loser
I’m winning