He wasn’t bullied
so much as didn’t belong,
not sporty or arty
or handsome or rich,
too chill for the computer clique. 

Bland in wit,
earnest in manner,
maternal in mien,
he was neither akin to nor appalled by
the jocks, potheads, and girls,
just a bemused observer,

or so I thought
until his reunion note
alluded to years of loneliness,
which belied the photo he’d attached:
three grinning daughters
beside a packed Subaru.

They must be everywhere,
fathers whose kids
would never recognize
their adolescent selves,
driving, buying tickets,
standing by the rim
of the Grand Canyon,
at the rail of the Maid of the Mist,
on the grass at Gettysburg,
taking questions.