My Little Fat Fear

A poem I wrote in college:

Forgive me for sounding crude,

but there’s a little fat boy

at the end of our block

who scares the crap out of me.

I can always count on him

to be sitting in his front yard,

free of shirt or shoes,

and when I drive by

he never fails

to thrust his hips at my car

or jiggle his unsightly upper

portion.

Once when I was walking home

I realized I would have to step

into the street

to avoid the husky boy

sprawled on the sidewalk.

But my pride

got the best of me

and I chose to walk

around him instead.

Like Buddha in body shape

and philosophical illustration

he held out a pudgy hand

which was

empty.

So I kindly thanked him

for the invisible gift,

smiled at my own conquered

fear,

and stepped over the child

who continued to say

nothing.

Then it hit me:

not an epiphany

but a thick, heavy hand

on the back of my leg

which sent me running home

to lock myself in.