They don’t like you, the other kids in the seventh grade. Back then you figured this was largely OK. After all they were lumpy and smelled bad. Trouble was, they started pushing you down stairs, bashing your head into lockers. You were the disabled kid in the big junior high school and it was 1967.
I knew, listening with everything I had that crickets would materialize inside me. Later I discovered Lorca, his line: “the little boy went looking for his voice/the king of the crickets had it…”
Yes. The cricket king. A little boy with his thick spectacles.