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When your skeletons escape their closet prison

A couple of months ago I was minding my own business when all of a sudden I got a notification on my phone that someone had posted a picture on my Facebook Wall.

“That’s just swell!” I thought. “Surely no friend of mine would post anything compromising on my Facebook Wall!”

Now I’m not given to idiocy; it’s more that I suffer from occasional bouts of it.

And, of course, I dabble in it on casual buffoon Fridays, but who doesn’t?

So I was more shocked than I probably should have been to find that a friend from high school had discovered a poem I had written when I was fourteen years old, scanned it and posted it on my wall.

It was right about then I noticed the sharp pain in my back and an increased level of blood pooling at the bottom of my shirt.

Now, I’m not going to say that I was a particularly bad poet when I was fourteen.  I’m going to say that I was your average, run-of-the-mill bad poet when I was fourteen.

To be fair to myself I do want to point out that I did an AMAZING Einstein impression right out of the womb that was as good as my age fourteen poetry was bad.

The poem posted was an ode I had written to “His Airness” Michael Jordan.

This was back when he was playing basketball. You know, before he transitioned to destroying basketball teams as an executive or wearing jackets that had once been shag carpets.

And it went a little like this:

You have to admire the penmanship. Also my confidence that it mattered what year I happened to write this s**t.

This poem makes clear two things:

1.  I was pretty lousy at poem titles as this one deserves something more flashy, like “To you, fly over all.”

Fly overalls.

2.  I should have come up with a nom de plume WAY WAY long ago.

It’s a boy, Mrs. Leska. Now, should he want to use another name while writing awful teenage poetry I might recommend Bronco McBrown or Quinn Quincy.

So, there it is.  My secret shame.  Well, it was my secret shame.  Shoot.  Well, I can still pretend that my poem about this guy came out all right:

Patrick Ewing inspired many more young poets than you’d think.


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