Among the young and younger people

Doof, 19, barrel-chested with a football-shaped head. Graduated high school 2 weeks ago.

I ask him: “Did you look up what ‘brothel’ means?”

“No.”

(Another guy on the stocking crew, 19, who also didn’t know what ‘brothel’ meant wrote it on his hand and still forgot to look it up.)

Cole, 33, asks Doof, “Do you know what a ‘bidet’ is?”

“No. I got a ‘B’ in Honors English.”

“So?”

“So I don’t need to know any more English.”

I pray he’s joking so I laugh.

Just then Vance the home-schooled kid walks past. Not even 21 and he’s battled
skin cancer.
His face looks like
Mars
with acne.

I begin: “Vance, what’s a brothel?”
“A bordello.”
“What’s a bordello?”
“A whorehouse.”
“What’s a whorehouse?”

Everyone laughs.

I’m the oldest among these young and younger people and a bent butterknife,
but when they laugh
I am a joyous sword.

I’m not gonna worry that Doof is the future. Vance will be there and Cole will be there and I will be there
as a butterknife under the hot breath of failure,
prelude to the
wiping away
that shows
polish.

 

 

Tags: butterknife, failure, fools, kings, poems that don't suck, polish, rage