When I was eleven years old, I
sat on the front porch and wrote
my first poem. I used the soft lead pencil I favored,
but time has not.
It had twelve lines, six couplets, three stanzas.
I rhymed it a-a-b-b, just like every poem should be.
I got to the end and sighed,
squinting into the sun and the summer-pink petunias,
and wrote at the bottom of the page of my notebook, spiral-bound,
in bigger print,
“I think I am finally becoming a real person.”