I was never the schoolyard bully
but when I see them on the street
flawless haircuts, little backpacks,
perfect pin-striped suits,
I want to get some mud
on their name tags, a few good kicks
in the shins, a few red stains
on my shirt—
I’d tell you it’s because
two of them harassed me at work
for days until I threatened to call
the cops, or that their book
is a lousy sequel
to the New Testament,
or that I was performing
a preemptive strike
against implied Holocaust
denial,
but I wouldn’t tell you
that they make me feel like a failed Jew—
that I had the same sure step
of their polished shoes
until the morning after my bar mitzvah
when I woke up the same
acne-ridden adolescent
as the day before, and I still
got slapped by my father
for not being able to open my mouth without stuttering—
I’d only tell you that the world
is a complicated place, and I just want
to give their moral compass
a good, hard spin.
