"ehem"
we all hear it
the voice of the once-feeble boy
whom we always assumed would
end up in some shabby office job
typing away schedules and making spreadsheets
avoiding fellow humans and drinking coffee– black

the voice that seemed so small to us then
now seems impossibilly loud–
ridiculously honest, and tragically sad

and no trace of anger or shame
or anything that bears resemblance to
the last picture of the boy
you carry in your minds

important people, marked by name-tags
and good posture–
nice suits
surround him

it's all very intimidating
all of you hoping
he makes no mention
of you, or you, or you

and the wait, for him to speak
is nerve-wracking and
feels remarkably long
with people tapping their feet
impatiently, and readjusting their ties

until finally he clears his voice once more
and addresses the crowd
the audience exchanges expressions
of amazement, wonder

his voice is strong and reaches you
though you're hiding in the very last row
and you can't bear to meet his eyes
or return his flashy smile

he makes a speech
and you settle into your seat
as you forget your own presence

all seems well
until
he stops mid-word
and meets your stare

and

all of a sudden it's 1979 again
and you're back in that playground
and you have a bat in your hand
and he has fear in his eyes
and he's crying
and begging you to let go
but something in you snaps
and you hit him
right across the nose
before you could stop– and then you sprint

it sinks in when you're halfway home
and you stop and hesitate
feel the guilt
but shrug it off
and walk the rest of the way back

the roles are reversed now
and he is clearly the bigger man
and you are small, and weak
and petty

a playground bully is your only claim to fame
while he is the president of this ******* country.

he starts again
and you feel worse than you would had he
given you the punishment you deserved

nope, this boy ain't angry- or ashamed,
only hurt, and blatantly sad.
so, so sad.