In a fight between me and me, I'd pick me.

The thing I remember first about him
is that when we met in junior high
it tickled me pink to hear him tell
the story of how he had suffered two hernias
by that point in life already: one while being born
the other while trying to lift a heavy rock as a kid.
His personality didn't seem much stronger, either;
a cheerful runt who meant well, but all-in-all
just another bland sap with a huge bookbag whom
I was stuck sitting with in those boring honors classes
that obviously got me real far.

And the unibrow, the unibrow made it obvious
that he was very Italian. One day in English class
he further emphasized the fact when sonnets of different forms
were being discussed. He raised his hand abruptly
to point out that his last name was the root
of the Italian who invented the rhyme-scheme
discussed at the time. ABBA CDDC none of it matters;
that sorry bastard was just using it to get laid
like the rest of us, only it worked for him
and he got his name solidified in the annals of time.
And a few centuries later some kid
got to raise his hand and claim relevance.

I respected that boy even less after that day.
We'd be in the cafeteria and he'd make a bad joke
and the pity laugh that used to surface wouldn't come;
he'd sold his soul, and for what?
It didn't change the fact that sticks in the mud
stuck to more concrete things like the Periodic Table
and Trig formulas; and even his precious poem template
was a fake, a recipe designed for success that
only dished out more meaningless nonsense
meant to make ugly things sound pretty
make truths out of lies.

So there you have it, ______ ________:
the only bad thing I'd ever have to say about you.

I hope, if you ever read it, it means even less
than your great-great-great-great
grandfather's contribution ever did.

Let's both roll over and go to sleep now
knowing we've earned it with our own shoulders.