i grow, to become an adult, if i must

i grow, to become an adult, if i must. i too do not care to be alone.
unprecedented, it is not, i know.

i do too that looking at the glass so objectively. i am aware of the sprouts
wielding its tendrils up and up and up inch by inch
year after year. for, sometime ago the sad image turned
and metamorphosed.

every strike at the hand of the clock i mature.

yesterday, dear, i learned to use a whatchamacallit. the bald teacher talked of it in school.
but i used it for a purpose, yesterday. and calculators do not leave my side these days.

so like an imprinted duckling i walk forth
by killing that spirit god of doodling
i grow, to become an adult, if i must.

it is ironic. times when i was to study i did not, imbibing turnpikes after another
giving wet hedges a light brush to sprinkle the dust of water
upon myself, and while avoiding the tall snake lying on the road, made love to life.

with weed up my throat i gurgle. it is just as i thought
a greeting card persona non grata
there on the wooden floor of the basketball court
lies my childhood