IN MY DREAMS
By Justus E. Taylor
Copyright © 2007 by Justus E. Taylor
My Dad told me many times,
That there's no substitute for preparation.
He also said never stand in line,
And never forgive, added as fortification.
I got home late from school,
Bringing puffed out lips to look battered.
Not really trying to fool, Mom,
But crying too, to get the most patted.
Dad, it was that Smith kid who's all muscle,
Picking on me and chasing me home.
I'm only eleven so I can't tussle,
With a kid eleven-and-a-half, almost grown.
Now son you need to turn yourself to stone.
To do that you have to practice
The skills that tough bullies hone.
So then your punches can be matchless.
The day had arrived when math and science
Had lost all practical value.
It was now a matter of total reliance
On things more important than school stature.
Then came weight lifting, kick boxing and Kung Fu.
Heavy bags, speed bags, colored belts and grunts.
Mats and mirrored walls reflecting every clue,
That I was learning everything to make Smith a dunce.
True, that was many years ago.
Long enough to forget the Smith bully.
Since I now rely on what I know,
About serving Starbuck's coffee.
OK, maybe I chose the wrong road,
but the "anxiety monster" can't be forgotten.
My Dad's advice has lightened life's load,
Whenever again I'm eleven.
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