He comes to you limping,
A foot dragging and a bend in his neck.
He carries his sex like a newspaper sack,
Always on the make. You want him
Just like he is, wounded,
Out of sync, a child of the '50's.
Thirty years past his prime!
Now, no more shuffling after a playmate
On a tattered ball field. He lies,
Just listening. You reach and caress
His withered arm, his ragged leg.
Oh, at eight, he flew like a wasp!
Though you've fixed everything,
He will not stay nor dine.
Instead, he makes his way down
Michigan Avenue, wind in his hair, lighting
A cigarette, almost folded double,
With his flimsy fingers.
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