Mr. "B"
The shirt I wore only once,
The sleeves, as with every one I buy,
too long and it had
French Fucking Cuffs, to boot.
It was sky-blue to match,
my mother said, my eyes and
would be just the thing
Because
I had been beaten in the school bathroom,
dreamed out the windows while
the nuns droned on about suffering
christ knows that I hadn't been invited
to the class party my parents were
chaperones for and,
if that weren't just too much,
my grades were going in the toilet
where I had been cornered, whipped with wet
handkerchiefs for the foul crime
of dreaming out the window
and there I was
with an IQ through the roof.
So the shirt,
being sky-blue to match my eyes,
said my mother, would,
being the latest thing,
make me popular,
get me in the parties,
pull the shades on the windows out
which I dreamed and stop
the downward trajectory of my young life.
But
I hated that shirt, too long
in the arms with its kiss-ass,
up-to-the-minute collar and color
to match my eyes that were really red
with rage at the shock of being out
in the blue and what I really wanted
was to spit in their soup, piss
in their shoes and fuck
the trajectory of my young life.
