Portait of the Poet As Young Nerd
I wrote poetry all the time in high school
Showing it to Kimrey, each morning,
Waiting in Home Room for Mrs. Johnson
Waiting for approval.
Prolific but not free
Caesar or Alexander's great somewhere,
Marigolds spinning in the sun,
Threads of love unknown,
A renowned sensitivity.
No bitter or biting thing,
Nothing about being or becoming,
Or the glories of the simple life,
Nothing of Tobacco Road people,
lurching and alone On Highway 421 South
Feelings caught in my heart
like a fish bone in the throat
Writing poetry like preaching sermons,
mouth stuffed with Sunday handkerchiefs
Anesthetized and alone,
Highway 421 South, Liberty.
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