xavi prances around with nine year old gold
stars on his shirt and tells other people they're
his friend asked him the question,
"if she and me were dangling over a fire, who would you save?"
he asked us what we wanted to do after school.
his friend said soldier, i said poet.
xavi said he'd save me
because words are more important than guns.
just kidding, he hates me.
but Xavi's the kind of person who
i think would say that.
he's Spanish and an atheist and English and freaky
and crazy and American,
but I'm starting to think Xavi's tired of labels.
i tell him I'm sick of being called
and he says, "I know."
i wish I could ask him if he's sick of being called
xavi is obsessed with soccer
and knows his players like I know my poets.
he can talk car like nobody's business.
he's also a mathematical genius if you ask him,
but sometimes I imagine him huddled up in his one-parent
house, desperately trying to study,
desperately trying to impress.
he disappeared so fast after graduation
i almost didn't feel him become a memory.
some days I wonder if he's going to
wear 'mentally disturbed' at his new school.
i ask him if he's sick of people calling him
and he just looks at me.
xavi prances around with the memory of having
the most gold stars in kindergarten,
and I hope one day he'll find something else to
be proud of.