Remote Holding

Remote Holding

 

I used to spend nights on the couch,

while other kids were surfing

the tangible channels of life, discovery

and entertainment.

 

During spring break,

I watched them treat

chocolate sauce like wallpaper

and alcohol like chocolate sauce

on MTV.

 

Most mornings, my bus would pass

their black Jeeps that sat on sumo-sized tires;

the strong, intimidating force

of cool.

 

The MTV generation piled out, acceptance

pulling their faces like strings

from the corners of their mouths, as I exited

the yellow ghost.

 

Most afternoons I wondered why

my teeth weren't straight

and I couldn't seem to stop

putting on pounds.

 

In a gym full of showmen

and 'show me' girls, with the smell

of sex filling the basketball courts,

getting laid was a distant thought

to standing tall.

 

Seeing some of them years later

removed from keg stands and paper planes,

and last night's lay, they appeared

not pathetic

 

Or defeated

in their ratty, paint-speckled pants,

but victorious.  They looked at me

as if they had won.

 

I sat and tried to project my finally found

confidence but couldn't.  I was back

on the steps of study hall, holding

that f*****g remote.