This memory could be of any day, so let us say _____.
Clammy hands, quiet looks at girls,
my ass on cracked plastic, lower half of a warped wooden desk.
Shifting in my seat I slide my back down then up
awkward in my cramped chair.
Shorts too short, the price you pay for homemade looks,
shorts too short, Daisy Dukes, says a friend.
Bad enough that here I am, young man spinning clay
into forms bestial and ugly, one of only three guys
in a class run by a middle-aged hippie in new-aged rags.
The price of adolescents, attempting to stand out by not standing out.
My stomach turns over and I feel the pale pink puke
splashing my throat like magma spattering the rim of a caldera,
Accompanied by the fear of being called out,
being singled out as someone other than them.
Daisy Dukes, they would say over and over, not all at once, but still
from time to time, Daisy Dukes-Daisy Dukes-Daisy Dukes.
The General Lee was parked out front at my high school,
so how was I supposed to feel?
We grow out of this, so some say, we grow older,
but memory yet keeps the past alive
as embers snug in cow dung,
carried from camp to camp.