I am the number Twenty Seven,
Etched into my soul, my worth
is that of High School drivel and
recurring bile that settles behind
toothy chagrin. Twenty Seven, I
am nothing more than a limited
edition model bathed in yellow
graphite and prompts forged in
the pockets of lined CEOs who
have never been judged like a
sneetch with the number twenty
seven on their bellies, or worse
twenty two. I am twenty seven,
not my achievements, not my
service. I am twenty seven tears
on crinkled paper that acts as my
gatekeeper, cryptkeeper, and during
my eulogy they will say she did well
for what she had to work with, being
a twenty seven.