He's got on his $2.50 cords
and his almost-wrinkle-free retro tee
that hugs his arms and might as well
have garage sale ink-jetted into the fiber.
Garage sale gigolo,
outside of hangin' with the boys,
lends me an hour.
And his awkward arms and throw around feet
get in the way
as he trips over ideas
on the way to dinnertime philosophy.
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