At five, a red-checkered table cloth.
Six was bright color and letters in books.
Eight was times tables and dinosaurs.
By nine I could feel, and by eleven, I’d found the words
to say so.
Twelve and I put my life on paper,
Thirteen and I’d ripped
it all to shreds.
Fifteen was a boy and loud music
and a drive to go.
I’ll have gone.
Thirty-five will be a red-checkered table cloth.
Share this article: