There were cliches spoken and 

fairy words exchanged—

false, feathery words

and flighty winged touches,

but the meanest people have the shittiest lives.

There was romance and laughter,

there was passion in strides

but all I kept thinking was

why can’t I say what I’m thinking:

the meanest people have the shittiest lives.

He said, “I’m kind of an asshole.”

And I knew that was taken inside—

named, propagated, and then reified.

The meanest people—

the assholes and bitter men cursing

teasing too far—

the shittiest lives.

I stopped before I said it

but he heard it in context.

He keyed the car that parked

too close

and bragged about frightening children,

and all I kept thinking,

over and over:

I saw him truly—

like a customer come to the bar for a drink—

angry and bitter,

not at me but at some

faraway problem

like one of the meanest people.