Poetry found me
aching for a voice
My hair in junior-high pigtails
budding body under
pink Taurus sweatshirt
Sitting in the back
of English class
falling into quicksand
stuck in inner-city
yellow clapboard house
an only child of
fatherly abandonment
Cursed by teachers
for having imagination
Wasted on pimply boys
who couldn’t spell frustration
A soon to be orphan
never guessing
future importance of words
silent on the page
Growing to blossom
fertilized by all those
concrete sidewalks
and humid burning sun
Blooming
into wildflowers
Flaming
into pages
of confident verse