That Guy

That Guy

There’s always that one guy.

He meanders in ten minutes late

like he doesn’t give a damn about the class,

but comes in anyway out of spite. 

He’s got thumbtack hips

and pants that only stay up by some 

God-given miracle, or maybe it’s because 

they’re too tight to go anywhere. 

His hat is that special kind of “fuck you” orange, 

an extra-neon highlighter atomic bomb of color

that clings to the peripheries of your vision 

and tosses your concentration the bird.

When he opens his mouth to answer a question,

you expect there to be bits of brown between his teeth

from all the bullshit he spews, 

but sometimes he surprises people.

You can tell this is a topic he likes from the way 

he sits - upright, hands on the desk, feet on the floor, 

those scuffled, shredded shoes of his staying silent

for once, their usual baseline tapping postponed. 

His answer is better than any one you could have 

come up with. You almost feel insulted, but you 

can’t hold back your surge of absurd pride instead, 

like you were secretly waiting for this day all your life.

When he leaves the room, it’s with a shake of those

hips that could cut diamonds, that hat firmly in place

on his head even in the unusual heat of early Spring,

and a smirk as crooked as his logic.