K) Cay Kar

In 8^th Grade the big-boned Polish Boy

with long knotty hair

declared to us his dream to own a truck

A big truck that he would drive

state to state

and it would have two naked girls--

decals defenestrating in the rear

He showed us the picture of them

he had cut out of a car magazine

I remember this at our reunion today

his body having caught up with his bones--

mostly muscle I mean, his hair cut short

and the truck, he tells me, was only the first step

“Omigod! How the fuck are ya?” he rushes over

happy to see the kid who used to be

masked in popularity

“Meet the wife,” he says, “we just

put down a payment on a house outside of Boston”

My hair is long and I drove a rusty Celica until last week

when it was totalled by an even rustier K Car

when I was drunk

driving home from the bar

where I go after spending my days

as teacher's aid in 8^th Grade English B

at Jackson High.

“We left the baby with her parents” he says

smiling

at his young beautiful bride

and handing me a photo in utero

while I take a deep drink

of my warm beer

to compensate for my missing date

who I left when I moved in with my parents

in their spare room---

I mean basement.

“I'm going to go for a cigarette,” I say

taking a step away

In the 8^th Grade he was the only one who smoked

the rebel now the man, and I think

of the proud statue of our 7th president in the courtyard

surrounded by Seminole students

long-limbed girls and tough brown boys eating tater tots and existing

within one of history's many cycles

of innocuous revenge.