It’s not that your argument is attacked or
your precious name is so sorely wounded,
it’s the seat at the front of the class,
the preciousness of the teacher’s pet,
ever so smart and the last of
any given word. Sitting astride
your simulation riding each
tautology around your ivory tower,
your booming voice not accustomed to
a fair fight. Accountable to
consequence at your end of
the invective, unaware
that you never learned to punch
your weight, surprised at how
heavily the canvass hits you,
canceled by the count.