In middle-school or junior high
(6th 7th and 8th grade)
the school split us into two separate lunches.
Half of the school ate and played at 11:45
the other at 12:30.
And for some this was bliss, others tragic:
split apart for the first time in their lives,
The kids outraged at the lack of empathy for the
sacred bond of temporary friendship.
Me I didn’t care; I knew the tables were split as well.
Cool kids over there
You kids over there the freaks over there, and I’m over here.
But then I learned how to play baseball, and things changed.
I learned how to hit the catcher’s mitt wherever he held it,
I learned how to win games, make all-star teams.
(I could even pick up a rock and hit a tree from 50 yards away 4 out of 5 times).
A kid on fire. A kid on a mission.
The more baseballs I threw
the closer I got to the cool table
Then my braces came off, and my face grew into my teeth, so I finally made it.
Not only did I make it but I conquered it too.
The new Odysseus
The new Ceaser
The new Lord of the Lunch.
But after that week I wanted nothing more than to go back to wherever the hell I came from, somewhere over here where my silly little poems just might make some kind of sense.
And to someone other than me
*poem by me, art by her