The Last Punch I Threw - May 19 2026

 

The Last Punch I Threw

May 19 2026

They say bullies are cowards

punching down instead of up.

The last punch I threw

was in grade school

at recess

over who-knows-what.

Really, I have no idea,

because the red hot righteousness

that blazed in my eyes that day

means nothing now;

time heals,

life goes on.

No bullying

just a childish argument.

And not long after, we became friends.

Most of us

eventually learn to problem solve

without black eyes

or the shedding of blood.

But grown-up bullies

have learned to be more subtle,

fighting with words, not fists.

This way, they keep their distance

  — not willing to risk

the actual human connection

that, God forbid

could lead to empathy.

But they’re as insecure as ever

and pick their victims carefully,

the more defenceless, the better. 

They seek out weakness

like heat-seeking missiles,

honing in

on soft underbellies

and open hearts.

Good to know

that a punch to the nose

will cow a bully

who’s never been hit before,

that one rhetorical uppercut 

will shut them up for good.

I can’t remember who won

if anyone did.

Probably him.

A schoolyard tussle

with grass-stained pants and bruised knuckles

in a circle of kids,

urging us on

like loutish gawkers

at a drunken barroom brawl.

I called it a schoolyard fight.

I said I wasn’t bullied.

But honestly, you have to wonder

when you look for the bully

and there isn't one to be seen,

could the bully have been me?

Social media, of course, is a field day for bullies. Or perhaps brings out the bully in all of us. There’s anonymity, which brings freedom from accountability. There is the escalation of language without consequence. There is the pressure to signal virtue, seek belonging and acceptance, for the powerless to feel effective,  or to simply feel seen. Or just plain vent.

But this didn’t begin as a commentary on the poisonous discourse of the internet. I’m not even on social media. It actually began with Donald Trump (a man I clearly loathe, and find myself embarrassingly preoccupied by): a bully with people less powerful, but before those he envies or fears — strongmen like Putin and Xi — he flatters and scrapes and concedes. He is a classic bully and inveterate coward, punching down instead of up. Of course, he uses words. The fat strutting fuck would fold in any actual fight.

The ending of the poem is meant to be provocative, not autobiographical. After all, I was a shy loner with a hot temper, and anyway, he was way bigger than me.  . . . Rocco, if you’re out there, get in touch!