Then I got up to leave
and said Stand up.
He stood. I said: Look at me.
I’m a middle aged man
with a limp and a wheeze
and a son and a wife that I love.
I’m not just a little avatar.
You’re better than this.
You have a name of your own.
Be proud of it.
Don’t hide it again
and I won’t ruin it.
Now shake hands.
‘I’m sorry.’ he said,
and looked like he meant it.
Then we shook on it.
From the blog post Meeting A Troll. Submitted by Angi Holden.
Verbatim Poetry 