You Can Always Tell a Harvard Man But You Can’t Tell Him Much
for Ashley
Do you have any books about Harvard?
Do you have any books about how to get into Harvard?
Do you think I have a chance at getting into Harvard?
Do you know if you carry this quarterzip in a medium?
Do you have this hoodie in a small?
Are all the hoodies you have on the floor?
Where are your hoodies?
Are you hiring?
Can I leave my resume with you?
Do you have a bathroom?
Do Harvard students get a special discount?
Do I get a discount if my father went to Harvard?
Do I get a discount if I’m the President of Harvard?
What discount do I get if I’m a visiting scholar?
Do you know how hard I worked to get to where I am today?
Where’s the lady’s room?
Can you direct me to the little boy’s room?
Do you have another bathroom?
Is there always a line at your bathroom?
Why does the bathroom smell like that?
Where are the books?
Why did you get rid of all the books?
Can I take your picture?
Do you have any more Harvard swag upstairs or just books?
What does Veritas mean?
Are you a student here?
Don’t you wish you were?
Do you guys sell like bongs or grinders with the Harvard logo?
What about the Harvard Seal?
What about a big red H?
Where’s your political thought department?
Where’d you put your history books?
Why have things changed?
Where is your econometrics section?
Where’s the café that used to be here?
How can you call this a bookstore without a café?
What is happening to Harvard Square?
Is it just books upstairs?
Do you have any shirts that say “Harvard Mom”?
Do you have any shirts that say “Harvard Legacy”?
Do you have any shirts that say “Harvard Fool”?
Backstop
Sometimes I still feel the way I did that afternoon
at Extended Day when Kyle Whitney choked
me against the old ballfield’s rusted backstop. Soon
I’d learn of long-brewed divorce &—I’d provoked
nothing—mother’s new man over for supper. With cartoon
anger, bulging eyes & hockey player’s hands, he coaxed
the muscles in my throat to bruise. He was power & foam;
we were nine. When they found us, the teachers called our homes.
Zachary Bond lives and writes in Somerville, MA.
