Wrong Guy

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Wrong Guy


There are worse things than being 

sprawled on the cafeteria floor 

along a saucy smear of mystery 

meat, the patter of the principal’s feet 

drawing near to haul you to detention, 

your broken jaw not failing to mention

how you walked tall to the football table

and poured milk on the meathead

who you heard from a friend of a friend 

said what he said about your sister. 


Not that it will heal quickly or won’t hurt 

like hell, but there are worse wounds

than losing the right fight, like landing

the hook all right and standing 

broad-chested and triumphant over 

that befuddled face, your knuckles stained 

with the blood of the other Jake, the innocent 

one who never uttered a single word.


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