Takashi
by Andrea M. Newton
I like this man across the room from me,
with his black frame glasses
and matching hair, matching eyes.
It is who he is.
When he takes them off,
those black-rimmed demons he hates so much,
he's someone else, angry, unconcerned, dangerous.
The silent, brooding leader
of some back alley, downtown, inner city New York gang.
Live or die, Takashi -- execute command.
There is no world outside him,
his mind, his crystal black-ice eyes.
That's not him.
I've watched him, and he is real. He is scared.
He is a pair of black framed glasses,
heavy, awkward, ugly.
Every high school kid who aced Calc and Bi-Sci,
but couldn't make the football team.
And wore polyester plaids
to perfect attendance and the honor roll.
Stuttering and mumbling when he asked a girl out,
sticking her with the corsage pin when she said yes.
Remembering every no.
And there were so many.
But none of this matters.
Now he explores what interests him,
ignores all the rest, through his black-rimmed eyes.
He is only who he is,
for whatever that might mean. |
