Brown Slacks and Ties
Mike's the only one who slides on the pavement.
His brown slacks always have holes at the knees,
Even though his mom sewed a patch on them already.
We used to play kickball in the school yard
But we kept hitting the building, so the teachers
Told us we had to play punchball instead.
We hit the building anyway.
When I play in left field, Joe or Andy playing
Right field--right pavement, I guess--depending
On what day it is, because sometimes Andy plays infield--
I watch Mike run around first base and slide into
Second and it always baffles me. It's pavement;
Doesn't it hurt?
Nobody really likes him, so I suppose he's used
To hurt, but his knees are always bloody and
Cut-up and it's got to sting for the rest of the
Cold day of math and history and if we're lucky,
Art class. Mike doesn't seem to mind, though.
It seems to bother me more than it bothers him.
Every sixth grade boy has a stain on his brown
Tie. All the girls, who just graduated from the
One-piece jumpers to the skirt and blouse outfit,
Seem to lock in a pristine appearance elusive to
The opposite sex, those of us who sport jelly
Stains or chocolate milk splotches or sometimes blood
Or sometimes paint.
Down in the lunchroom, the scene of many incidences
Of those very stains, the boys sit apart from the girls
Until one day, during the sixth grade year, Tommy
Goes to sit with the cool girls, the ones everyone has
Crushes on. He sits there and just talks. We expect him
To spontaneously combust or retreat in agonizing defeat,
But he doesn't. He just sits and eats and talks.
We, the rest of us, sit at the table apart from the girls
And eat our peanut butter and fluff sandwiches, our
Leftover meatloaf sandwiches, our apples, our bananas.
We don't look over at Tommy much because it reminds us
Of exactly what we want. Instead, someone makes fun of
Mike for picking his nose and we all laugh at him until
He throws something and the teacher yells.
We all feel like Mike, though. Maybe that's why we
Hate him so much. Maybe that's why he slides into second base,
Even though second base is asphalt. The rest of us would do it,
Too, if we were just a little braver, because we all want to feel
Our pants rip open, our knees gash wide, spurting blood.
We'll never admit that, not underneath the cloudy sky of our town,
Our brown slacks and ties all intact except for Mike's.
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