I should have been busy
inventing new ways to piss off my mother.
Instead I spent all of seventh grade
breathing in the stagnant air of the room where
books go to die or possibly live forever.
Thank God I didn't have Google then
to confirm that five to seven years later
the woman with beehive hair that ran your city's switchboards
would retire (to Orlando, probably) and
all of the mail carriers would abandon their trucks
and we'd be eating Thanksgiving dinner without you.