Joey

I named it.
I name it Joey.
I named it like you'd name a stray dog that just showed up at your door,
All mangy and half covered in dirt.
It needed to be called something.

Joey was this kid I grew up with.
Wore one of those beat up baseball caps that was so
faded from the sun and his own sweat that he forgot
what team he rooted for.

This kid--
Joey--
he would wait for me on the bus,
and every day he'd talk my ear off about the hardships
Of life,
then empty my pockets and lunch into his backpack and
Call it a day.

It got to the point where I'd stopped caring.
I'd just hand it over.

He Grew on me over time.
It was ritual.
And even though I hated the kid,
I had to accept that he was Around.

That's Joey, alright.

Except now, it costs me
more
than just my lunch money
to take care of him.