When he was nine,
he wrote a poem
on construction paper
and he called it “Puppies”
because that’s what it was all about.
And his teacher gave him an A
and a star-shaped sticker
and his mom hung it
on the refrigerator door.
That was the year
he learned to ride
a two-wheeler
because all of the other years
he’d been too scared.
That was the year
he was the king
of the monkey bars
because no one could climb them
better than him.
And his dad always said,
“Atta boy!”
with a hand on his shoulder
and he was always there to say it.

When he was twelve,
he wrote a poem
on notebook paper
and he called it “Dreams,”
because that’s what it was all about.
And his teacher gave him a B
and a small smile with a half-shrug.
And his mother said, “That’s nice,”
and didn’t hang it on
the refrigerator door
because she was too busy
making the casserole.
That was the year
he stopped playing
on the monkey bars,
even though he really wanted to,
because it was no longer
the cool thing to do.
That was the year
he learned how to ride a mini-bike,
even though he was scared,
because all of his friends
thought it was cool.
And his dad said,
“That’s great,”
with his eyes on the newspaper
and some days,
he forgot to say it
altogether.

When he was fifteen,
he wrote a poem
on wrinkled sketch paper
and he called it “Love,”
but that’s not what it was about.
And his teacher gave him a C+
and a strange look.
And his mother didn’t
hang it on the refrigerator door
because she was sleeping.
That was the year
he found a pool of blood
in the hallway at school
and never found out
how it had gotten there.
That was the year
he rode a motorcycle --
because he was afraid to --
and he felt adrenaline
and absolutely loved it.
And his dad didn’t say,
“That’s great,” or “Atta boy,”
because he was watching TV,
and some nights,
he wasn’t there at all.

When he was seventeen,
he wrote a poem
on yellow tablet paper
and he called it “Confusion,”
because that’s what it was all about.
And his teacher gave him a D+
with a concerned expression
and a long look.
And his mother didn’t hang it
on the refrigerator door
because he didn’t show it to her.
That was the year
he mostly looked at the floor
when he walked in the
hallways at school
and he was tired a lot
because he was having
trouble sleeping.
That was the year
he was jumped
behind the school,
and he walked home
with a bloody nose
and torn sweater.
And his dad didn’t ask
what happened
because he wasn’t there.
And his mother cried softly,
alone in her room.

Four years later,
he was twenty-one
and his mother
didn’t celebrate his birthday.
That was the year
he walked down filthy streets
and nobody recognized him.
That was the year
he punched through a window
just to feel the glass
in his knuckles.
And he wrote a poem
on a coffee-stained envelope
and he called it “Madness,”
because, really,
that’s what it was all about.
And he gave himself an A
and a blade
through each cursed lung
and he hung it
on the bathroom door
because, this time,
he didn’t think
he could make it
to the kitchen.