Psalm, to Jack

Let’s raise a glass to Jack McCracken,

who does so much for us the slackers,

lingers late to shoulder-carry us the tipsy,

in return asks nothing but a fist-bump.

Yea, though we hug the rounded belly of

our folly, bend our thoughts away from self-

reflection, we’ll break our fingers clutching

you, for we know you’re all that’s left for us.

Yea, though they hail the answers found in

cryptic code on burger wrappers in the backlot

dumpsters, in the litter scudding over sidewalks,

we’ll trust in you, hang on to you, buddy Jack.