Crazy 8

This costume I once wore,
now but an amorphous appendage,
chasing me by the river,
thirsting to drench me
with the old party splash,
when "whadda ya do?"
ushered in whispers
"Whadda ya want me to do?"

Such whoring.
Such desperation.
Such willing to be…
Such trying to be...

what?

Pandering to this,
pandering to that,
slowly lining up the ball,
while the chiders,
and other players grow,
amidst screaming fans,
goading the Hail Mary "bank off."

Lemme out of here.

Easy dressing.
Just the jeans.
The T.
Don't need the cig.
Or the Jack.

Finally…

Got a well-balanced and experienced big stick.

The playing field is more than familiar.

This old tip has seen it all.

Time to line up Life's 8 ball.

Gonna take my time.

Talk to fate from all angles.
It knows me.
I know it.
It'll tell me the pocket it wants…

when it's good and ready.

Oh, the crazy talkin’

some might say.

Maybe.

But next time I’m asked:

“It's what I do.”

Care for a game?