Meditation #28

I once knew a kid
named David Cocaine
and the knot of friends I traveled with
made him miserable
for two and years of junior high
because of that name, only letting up
when the Gatos brothers arrived’
with their bizarre gaits and scraggly curls
and their constant sniveling about their dad.
Christ, those were good times.

But in junior year I changed schools
and I had to find my own targets.  My favorite punching bag
was sophomore genius Andrew Duncan, who made me crazy
because he had a smarter mouth than me
and wouldn’t shut up about not being afraid.

One day in the lobby
Carl Sjogren egged me on into a full assault
one day when Duncan wouldn’t give him
ten bucks.  He told me
something I can’t remember now
about something Duncan said about me
but it was huge in my head, a red egg,
so I picked up Duncan and threw him down
the granite steps. 

Sjogren plucked the wallet
from Duncan’s pants as he tried to get up
and said, "I wouldn’t get up right now
if I were you.  Brown’s
kinda crazy."

We both got away with it

until this afternoon,  when I saw Andrew Duncan
in line at the pet store.  He’s bald now
and fat but I’m sure it was him,
and he was sure it was me. 

There’s a scar on his forehead,
a gully from his eyebrow to his fossil hairline.

And I’ve still got a red egg inside,
thirty three years later, except now
I know a little more about what to do with it…

so I turned away and turned my eyes
to the floor.  Couldn’t tell you
what he was buying

for that pitbull standing to heel beside him,
waiting for a word to set him off.

I know just how that dog feels.
I’ve been there myself.