He got his nickname
from a dyslexic, who thought
him to be
the smartest kid in class.
Nice catch, Brain!
birthed the laughter
in phys ed, from the
teacher calling strikes
behind the plate,
the shortstop
in her shorts and
ponytail, who spread it
wide and far.
A pair of
decades later,
shelving science
at the store, his face
is flushed
amid the Dawkins
books, the best-
seller from deGrasse,
that you shouldn’t call him
Tyson, lest someone
mix him up with
Iron Mike.
Brian stops and wonders
if whoever made
his name badge
did it deliberately,
for the customers
who might cackle
if they saw it, hiding their
grins in arms
as if they’re wings,
the manager paging
Brain!
to the front of the
cash, figuring
he could fix
the discrepancy.
There came the
day he sighed
beneath the sky,
giving his pate
a shake,
making certain
what’s under his
skull had understood,
that it could have
been much worse,
the shame that would
inflame him,
if he’d been Denis
with a single “n”—
the 6th-grade girls
a-giggle, the P
that began the
moniker
making him
duck his head
into his desk,
like an ostrich
which is smarter
than we think, aware
that sand is
timeless
like the stars
(if not locked
in a glass of
hours);
most of which
beyond
the names of man;
silent as the light
years wedged
between them.
Andreas Gripp
January 22, 2025
RF Image
Comments