Out of Nowhere
Robert Allen
November 26, 2021
This thank-you note comes as I leave
the gym, wiping the sweat from my brow
with a hand whose knuckles glow red,
black gloves tucked under an arm. I admire the
skill of younger men with lightning-quick
hands. Back when corn chips sold for twenty
cents a bag and we both worked as stock
boys at Joske’s—that clothing store out on the
loop, not the one downtown with the big
Santa Claus on the roof—you don’t seem that
much bigger than me, but I feel like a
Schwinn bicycle to your Mack truck. The skin
on your bulging arms glistens. Your
forehead and cheekbones catch the light like
chrome metal bumpers. Your legs move
like mag wheels. Your hands look like clamps
with steel tendons inside. Whenever you
see me you call me ugly, yelling it out from
the far side of the store while we gather
clothes hangers into our bins, using that name
when you corner me on the elevator. “Hey,
Ugly,” you say. “You sure are ugly. Hey you,
Ugly!” If you gave me a quarter to buy
you some chips, I wouldn’t argue. One day
the week after Christmas you come looking
for me. I have kept the nickel change. Your hand
appears out of nowhere, smacks my teeth
bloody, sends me to the floor. In the slow-motion
replay I kiss the palm of your hand, lips
touch the heel of your palm. My head oscillates
from the speed and force of the blow.
A voice commands me to stay down. I taste
the blood in my mouth. Lying on the
floor, I squirm in my pocket for a nickel. I toss it
to you, which is a big mistake. I crawl
over to the coin and reach it up to you. I hold
out that nickel even now, in gratitude.
Robert Allen is retired and lives in San Antonio with his wife, two children, five antique clocks, and five cats. He has poems in Voices de la Luna, the Texas Poetry Calendar, Writers Take a Walk, and Poetry on the Move. He co-facilitates Gemini Ink's Open Writer's Lab.
