poem post #8

perfectly steely disdain

Rolled his eyes at me.
That’s just what he did.
Little fucker.
He’s fifteen… maybe.
And I see him each day with the others at the bus stop.
Always glaring, not just at me, but at The World
from behind that thick black mane of his.
Same skull sweatshirt each day.
Earbuds in place to drown out
the noise otherwise known as Reality.
Whatever.
The others will wave.
With tepid indifference, I’ll grant you that.
But still.
They wave.
It’s what we do out here in the sticks.
It’s called being neighborly.
Only dude’s not having it.
So each morning when I roll through
he finds somewhere else for his eyes to fall.
Sickened by the sight of me?
Could be.
That’s what I suspect anyhow.
Then comes the morning when I catch him.
He’s all by his lonesome, loping up the road.
I wave.
He rolls his eyes.
And I’m pretty sure I know what he sees.
Yes.
It’s true.
Every morning I pull on slacks and a buttoned-down.
I own a hundred neckties.
I read the paper too.
And, yes,
most Sundays you’ll find me with the rest of the congregation.
I pay my taxes, the bills.
I vote.
I keep in step with company policy,
exchange pleasantries with my colleagues.
A high-fiber diet?
Roger that.
I’m on one.
I mow the lawn.
I even do the grocery shopping from time to time
And, yes,
it’s also true…
I’ve lost my edge.
I’ve caved.
Bang.
You got me, kid.
But I got Green Day on the ipod.
And, as soon as I drop my two-year-old off at daycare,
I’m turning that shit on
and cranking it up way loud.
All the way to the office.

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© 2009, Curt Alderson. All rights reserved in accordance with the Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works.