A Poet Remembering

Somewhere, in someone’s dusty attic

or maybe surviving a dank basement

is an unlabeled box of old things,

and among the books and papers and trinkets

saved from our long ago junior high days

lies an unpolished literary gem,

a golden banana, if you will,

my first poem ever published,

four lines on the lonely existence

of pine trees, at least of that one lone

pine outside the window I stared through,

day after day, seeking inspiration

for a poem to fulfill Mr. Demler's assignment

for our yet unpublished literary magazine

in the eighth grade, an assignment

I couldn’t do, didn’t want to do,

putting it off, day after day,

for my writing was “not good enough”;

that poem, rhythmic and rhyming,

confirmed it, my writing was NOT good enough,

nor was I, young and shy and alone,

but still, it was published, four lines

typed in the middle of the page, and I hope,

after all these years have passed,

that that unpolished literary gem,

that golden banana, has gone the way

of most things we did in junior high,

learning experiences, perhaps,

shaping who we are today, who

we have become, but some things are best kept

secret, buried in a box in a dusty attic

or a dank basement, lost and forgotten.