Act Like I’m Somebody, Won’t You? by David Spicer

Never a likable fellow in my
overalls and paisley shirt, I don’t
smell—very much—and I’ve
witnessed lawn mowers deafen
brush fires. My hobby?
Painting watercolors of pickup
trucks and still lifes of milk
cartons, crackers, and model
airplanes. My reputation precedes—
no, precludes—me, no matter
how I button up my costume.
Hey, I barely wobble glancing
at a pretty brunette in a sunhat
when I wait on a tree stump
for the bus. If I snort, it’s not her
fault: I swim the river every
morning with a hangover after
a Bud for breakfast, ambling
to the coffee shop barefoot,
my turquoise toenails testifying
to the smooth gravel.
Plus, my collection of suitcases
is unrivaled: one saved a life
last April in Lake Erie when I
tossed it to a child drowning.
You people denied me respect
because my face with its slash-scars
glares at you like an evil president.
You don’t remember I’m a hero,
and I can’t help it, so act like
I’m somebody, won’t you?

David Spicer
David Spicer has had poems in Chiron Review, Alcatraz, Gargoyle, Easy Street, Third Wednesday, Reed Magazine, Santa Clara Review, Rat’s Ass Review, Midnight Lane Boutique, Ploughshares, The American Poetry Review, and elsewhere. The author of Everybody Has a Story and five chapbooks, he’s the former editor of raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books. His latest chapbook is From the Limbs of a Pear Tree, available from Flutter Press.

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