getting called a fat fuck
on 2nd avenue
you have to understand that i can
let these things slide off of my back
i just choose not to.
and we were having a good time
saw a decent movie
hit the old st. marks place bar
for happy hour
for $3 pints of expensive beer.
we were talking about getting a break
about finally being settled
and why full moon fever
is the best total tom petty album.
i was feeling good, you see.
it’s a rare occurrence these days.
and i was getting ready to miss you
because you were going away
to buffalo for the weekend.
so maybe i had a bit of melancholy
dripped in with my spurts
we were getting mexican food soon
at that joint that nearly saved my life
back in 2003, that gave me something
to hold on to.
and, if you remember, we had the goddamned
right of way.
so when that prick in the bmw made that turn
and you flipped him off,
and he started running his mouth
and then i flipped him off and gave him
the finger, too,
and he called me a fat fuck, even though
you dispute that and say he called us
(but i know what he really said),
you got to understand why it got to me
it was like some stranger took the sails from me
like he pissed on a perfect day
like he shit on us,
and i don’t think i have to tell you about
the past anymore
about being a kid, about being that
fat fuck for years.
so, yeah, i was silent during dinner
and i was pissed on the train ride home
and i harbor things that strangers say much longer
than anybody else.
this is all true,
despite the massive ego you say i have.
and if you’re still looking for a reason
as to why i got angry
then i can’t tell you any more than i have.
so go back
read lines 1-26 in this poem
then skip down to lines 38-46
and let them sink in for a while.