friend
and worker,
Jake,
used to stroke his
gnarly beard
and yell out the window
at pregnant
women.
he'd say, hey baby,
i know what you've been
doing.
but he didn't mean
any harm.
he was just being Jake,
cigarette in one
hand,
beer in the other.
his painter pants below
his waist.
his lunch bag
holding a sandwich
of white
bread and bologna
that the shelter gave him.
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