I'm Taking My Ball And Going Home By Panama Soweto Poem by Kevin Prou

you're not listening I'm taking my ball
and going home
Scott Mikkel was infamous for ruining
Sunday morning full tackle football he
was the only kid in our neighborhood
with an NFL regulation pigskin
he was short stocky with greasy blond
hair and rosy cheeks he looked like a
grown toddler he sat in the back of
class Monday through Friday unwanted and
unnoticed but Sunday morning he was like
hero a champion self-appointed star
quarterback you know thought he came
from money and every Sunday it was the
same thing if we didn't play by his
rules he shot at the top of his lungs
you're not listening I'm taking my ball
and going home
he just wanted to be taken seriously you
see he sat in the back of class Monday
through Friday unwanted and unnoticed he
was fat ugly unpopular and reminded of
it with every ring of the bell every
uninvited party every snicker every
whisper every empty lunch table and
every unanswered prayer every fat joke
and every budget ail Marian failed
buttonhook he is what we all are when
our pride is exposed for the costume
that it is Scott you are a poemyears
later you are a poem I listen to the
sound of your mirror crackling watch you
claw for higher ground when the clouds
open up the fletcher heart so you
couldn't breathe what she drown at the
bottom of a bottle join fourth period
Scott we thought it was funny then and I
want to tell you now that I felt like
that too bottomless and alone and I wish
I could have told you then that you
weren't that you couldn't have been in
better company if Christ had gotten down
enough
space on his crucifix and sometimes when
people are listening to me I feel like
shouting at the top of my lungs you're
not listening I'm taking my fall and
going home sometimes I feel like people
only listen when I'm being destructive
so I speak with a poison in my tongue
and choke on my own cries for help when
you're alone your intestines feel like a
wet sailors both scoff they don't
understand people like us
my small things mean so much so I write
I turn our playgrounds into Colosseum's
down six points before things I give
purple hearts for skinned knees and
brokes
broken spirits and raised monuments for
those of us that were ignored I make
this mic my football and the
stage is an empty field vacant of what
defines youth and I quit storm clouds
and number two pencils disguise my scars
as poems I take the weight out of your
chest and put it on my shoulders and
then I take all of my fears and put them
on blank pieces of paper for you Scott
because you just wanted to be heard and
I just want people to listen and if they
don't then it I'll just take my
ball and go home