In the 11th grade
he wanted to be loved
or invisible
but he was stuck
somewhere in between.
He failed another
algebra II test
and stood there
in the stairwell
as the flood of students
rushed around him.
He dreaded his fate:
“Pop’s going to be mad.
He’ll think I’m a bum.
How am I ever going
to get anywhere in life?
And what the hell’s
the square root
of -1?”
A disembodied voice
came up from behind:
“Don’t worry about that.
That’s not who you are,
a numbers guy.
You’re a writer.”
It was Erica.
They were just friends
as she was too tall
to be anything else.
She must’ve seen his grade.
“I remember that poem
you showed me.
You’re a writer.
Do that.”
Continuing down the stairs
she passed by
and out of sight
unaware of the fire
she’d lit.
Right there
he rearranged everything
in his life
and set out to be a writer.
He wrote
plays
songs
jokes
poems
screenplays
articles
love letters
and it comforted wounds
preserved victories
reified dreams
and it gave him
a place in this world.
So,
Erica Falk
if you Googled
your name,
and found this poem
please know
David says
“Thank you.”
This poem is awesome, and so was her advice.
ReplyDeleteI sure hope she finds it.
She'd feel just like I did when I googled my name and found a photo of a vaguely familiar woman who stated her credentials, in her profile, as having studied with me, many years in the past. I tracked her down and she sent me a book of her poems. Talk about knowing that you have deeply touched another human being. There is nothing else to compare with that experience.
ReplyDeleteElizabeth
cool ~
ReplyDelete