Unpaid Debt - A Down Payment
“Stupid, fat, retarded kid”;
That was what they’d say,
Whenever Dennis V. approached
And said he’d like to play.
Fifth grade is for ten year olds,
A trait that Dennis lacked.
Blatantly invisible
He always sat in back.
The burden of his sentence,
Like weighted curtains fell;
A six year old residing in
A thirteen year old shell.
His voice was thick, like gravy,
Though rather high in tone;
Heavy on the cornstarch, but
With no testosterone.
Tattered, short-sleeve flannel shirt,
Black gloves upon his hands,
A tow’ring lack of confidence;
Prisoner of his glands.
A walking human target
For bullies in the town;
A fear repository
For cowards gathered round.
He stood the jeers at tetherball,
Yet, gladly, loan his glove;
Even let opponents win,
If push would come to shove.
Then launch a solitary march
To vanish, once again;
Locked away inside himself,
Behind that stoic grin.
The only contact Dennis knew
Was ridicule and scorn.
It made one wonder why the hell
Poor Dennis had been born.
Tolerance personified,
No allies to be found.
All of us were last to stand
While Dennis held his ground.
His presence an example
To a smaller, frightened me;
If I grow up, I hope that I’m
As brave as Dennis V.
What a great poem. Reminds me of grade school: what I saw, what I felt. Those who moved the fastest then, were--as it turns out--not always those who went the farthest.
Malcom
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Thanks, Malcolm.
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Loved the poem....it certainly brings back memories that we all possess because human nature does not change.
There is a little bit of Dennis in all of us. It's the trait that made survival possible as we passed through the hallowed halls of school. The taunting kept us humble yet focused and people like Dennis gave us heart and courage.
A friend told my mother, one time, that I was the only person who was nice to her in High School. She said I never seemed embarrassed to be seen walking through the halls talking to her. The truth is....I was slightly embarrassed but I was also determined to be a friend and no one was going to dictate to me who I could or could not talk to.
She has been dead for many years now...died of melanoma....and her life wasn't a happy one. If indeed, I was her only friend...then I am glad I was that friend.
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I know what you mean, Ms. Zola. I still remember standing at the tetherball pole, oversized glove on my right hand, watching the ball whiz by above my head. I never laid a hand on it, but Dennis didn't mind; he just wanted someone to stand on the other side.
Thanks for reading.
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great poem. brings tears to my eyes. there are so many Dennises...
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The number of Dennises doesn't upset me; it's the ranks of the tormentors.
Thanks for reading, Silken.
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indeed...that is what is so very sad about it all. this is a nice tribute...
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That is beautiful, Pinhole! I would certainly be more comfortable in a world full of Dennises. As far as human value is concerned, he was right on top!
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Thank you, Montucky. I like to think that if you looked up 'humanity' in a philosophical dictionary, Dennis's smiling countenance would be in the margin.
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Beautifully written, Pinhole. Of course, it had the (unintended?) effect of merely reinforcing my general dislike of the human race, but an excellent piece, nonetheless. Brought back memories, as well.
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Yeah, the human race wouldn't really be that bad if it wasn't for all those people.
Thanks, Wolf.
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I have heard you speak of Dennis many times, but this poem put it in a new light for me. I only hope I can teach my kids tolerance, acceptance, and humility as you have done me.
On a side note, good job finding a rhyme for testosterone.
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You and your brother did a marvelous job raising yourselves. I have no doubt you'll do fine with your own children.
And the rhyme wasn't near as difficult as finding the right rhythm.
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Pinhole, I don't know what to say. Your writing is amazing. This is really beautiful.
Thanks for posting, and for sharing Dennis with us.
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Thank you, PC. As always, you're much too kind.
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