I used to write poems
back when I wasn’t afraid
of sounding young, or
white, or too optimistic.
There I was, walking
towards some classroom
with a book under my arm
and my journal in my bag,
red knit hat sliding over
one side of a scrubbed face,
stopping to peer inside
a dogwood that had just
bloomed, not yet imagining
the caricature that someone
like me
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