What if Jack were sitting
in the middle of an answered prayer…
But he was too preoccupied
with everything to realize it?
And what if, instead…
He stopped and took inventory
of all the things that had come to him
in spite of his desire
to see otherwise?
He might already have
everything he needs.
Smelling jasmine flowers as he walked by the barking dogs.
Jack remembered her laughing from the back of the cab.
Grabbing his hand and pushing it under her dress.
Smiling and encouraging him to misbehave.
It was a long time ago,
but he could still see her polka dot dress
and white elbow length gloves.
Jack had long ago weaponized his intellect.
Using argument to get the upper hand.
What he was not prepared for was it to be used against him.
“You said you valued the truth. The truth is I’m tired of you.” said Cynthia.
He winced and tried to catch his breath.
A precise armour piercing missile.
It was sprinkling at the track.
He got a tip from some guys’s cousin.
Running steroids for Dirty Harry
who was racing in the third.
Then Jack got nervous and had Mary Lewis
bet their money to win, place and show.
Horse fucking won, but they lost two bets and only had enough for tacos.
“We’ve got to blow this one horse town.”
“Thanks,” Marianne said.
“You’re the one horse” Jack smiled.
Driving into a blinding blizzard with no heat in the car.
Taking turns scraping ice off the inside of the windshield.
Making a tiny window, just enough to see the eighteen wheeler bearing down on them.
Yeah, it’s an open loop. You decide what happens next.
Chrissie was a regular at the club.
Friends with Moise and Larry, the King of Swing.
Followed Jack around like a puppy dog.
“Jack, you want a blow job?”
She asked, like offering a cigarette.
“No thanks, Chrissie, we’re working’ right now.”
“Ok, just let me know.”
Setting up the cameras for the S&M show.
Living in New York in the 1980’s. I was a crazy time. Jack was in the middle of it, trying to make a living.
One thing you could say was that he had nerve.
On the playground the older bully tried to make him submit.
“Is that all you got?”
Answered by a flurry of punches.
Jack laughed a belly laugh.
The lasting joy of not being broken
was well worth the pain of getting clocked a few times.
Jack Sprat could eat no fat.
He had a bit of an eating disorder
and was fond of purging.
Unusual in men, but not without precedent.
His wife, Glenda, could eat no lean.
She was type 2 diabetic simply from loving donut holes
and pounding french fries.
Together, they made every meal an adventure.