Laughter
They’re all laughing at me, the tiny nerd
At him, the hulking moron
The spectacle of one social outcast
Preparing to pummel the other for their amusement

“I thought you was ma fwriend!” he stammers in fury
Indeed I was his comrade, but it seemed,
Only I could comprehend the manipulation of the masses
The cruel instigation of the cool, normal kids in the crowd

Even school security find themselves hopelessly impotent
To the oft cruelty of human nature
Morbidly amused, in spite of their intended station
They’re content to observe this trainwreck
This clash between the brute and the nerd

My pleas and appeals to the brute’s sense of decency fall on deaf ears,
For in his eyes, I have wronged him,
And the laughter ringing in his ears
Is born from my unintended mockery of his lisp,
Stutter,
And apparent slow wit

It was an offhanded, but short-sighted observation
Magnified by the chorus of our so-called peers,
Who piggyback on my rash ignorant words with their own,
More malevolent interpretations,
Adding petrol to the fire building in his heart
And so, as a matter of pride,
This giant boy must punish my ill-advised sophomoric satire

With his fists

“I thought you was ma fwriend!” he repeats his battle anthem
In addition to a few more colorful insults
His profane vocabulary seemed to be increasing with his rage

The time for words ends with his massive clinched fists raised and loaded,
With the momentum of his bad intentions
Building in my general direction
I respond with my guard raised,

A token resistance,
But my mother cautioned me never to go down without a fight
It was OK to lose to a superior opponent,
But it was never OK to cower in terror,
Or as my mom put it,
“Don’t go out like no punk”

I can see the first blow coming from his right hand,
Accompanied by his shouting, frothing obscenities
It was terrifying,
Massive,
Loaded with righteous rage

And impossibly slow

I sidestep the wayward blow with minimal effort
It whizzed by my left ear
Leaving the brute’s jaw line exposed

In that moment of fleeting physical superiority
I hesitated, unwilling to damage the manipulated brute
Even while he was recovering his balance
To launch a second assault with his left
Which I also evaded with surprising ease

This awkward dance of dorks continued for several seconds
With him swinging wildly and missing
But his timing and accuracy were improving

And I was left with the choice
Of either continuing the dance until he eventually connected,
Knocking me senseless in the parking lot,
Or overcoming my aversion to this spectacle,
Seizing on the opening he continuously left for me, to mount a counterstrike

I chose the latter

It was the awkward,
Clubbing,
Jabbing,
Slapping right hand of a reluctant pacifist
Thrown from my chest the way I saw boxers do it on TV
The palm of my disinclined, flopping fist landed flush on his fleshy cheek

It sent a shockwave rippling through the bruiser’s massive body,
Causing him to lurch toward me
Panicking, and misinterpreting the giant boy’s movement as a bull rush,
I hopped away and unleashed a reflexive overhand left
Which was still loaded, the way my father showed me

The sting of his teeth on my fist was shocking
I backed away, and watched in muted awe,
As the slow-witted hulking boy fell to the asphalt,
Bloodied face first

The cool, normal kids in the crowd roar with laughter,
A soundtrack to the astonishment I felt
The big, not-so-brutish boy rises, glowering at me,
Spitting blood and more idle threats

A vain attempt at saving face,
But I could tell by the fear in his eyes that the battle was over
When his school bus arrived, he was the first to board

“I thought you was ma fwriend!” he says wistfully, through a bloodied mouth
Yeah, kid… me too

The cool, normal kids were left slapping palms
And recapping the battle
Of the tiny nerd and the giant half-wit

One of the coolest, normal kids offers me his hand,
A symbol of acceptance into his circle of banal, jerkfaced jackasserry

My pride told me to put his cruel,
Mean-spirited,
Inglorious ass on the asphalt next,
But this voice was overruled by poor self-esteem
And the desperate need for youthful acceptance

As I reached to connect with his coolness,
His normalness,
He quickly, coldly withdraws his hand,
Leaving me spastically grasping the air
Like the spaz that I truly was

The cool, normal kids in the crowd roar with laughter again
“Look at that! The nerd thought he had a friend!”
They shout, sneering at me mockingly

Indeed he did.



"To be a poet is a condition, not a profession."
- Robert Frost

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