Junior High School. Oh, yeh, without a doubt.
In gym class, I couldn’t do a single chin-up,
And other boys were sprouting pubic hair,
which I was not, and they were quick to notice
in the shower after class, and comment on
in language not designed to boost self-confidence.
One day I made a jackass of myself
by blurting out, “Let’s have a make-out party”
as a class activity. Mr. Hollenbach, RFH,
our less than jovial homeroom teacher,
let me know he didn’t think my joke
was funny, and he kept me after school.
We had a dance on Valentine’s Day last period
in the gym, and I was dancing slow with
Darlene Strawser when I realized that what
I felt against my chest were breasts. Tits!
I’d no idea what to do, step away or just
pretend I hadn’t noticed, nothing’s changed
when all the world was turning inside out.
Oh, no, you couldn’t get me back in junior high
for all the tea in China, not for love or money.
I’d sooner find myself again in Vietnam
with only an entrenching tool for self-defense
than find myself once more in junior high.