If you ever asked me

how my English class is going,

I would tell you that I enjoy

adhering to the outline of an essay,

to follow the frame of a thesis

or the order of an analytical paragraph.

And I love forcing my mind

to be more creative,

the strict guidelines of writing

being bent to fit the shape I want

while the main principles of grammar
still prevail

like never forgetting how to ride a bike.

I would add that I can get lost

reading this book of poems

or writing and rewriting

the revisions of my work.

We all started with Huck Finn,

then moved on to In Cold Blood,

The Trouble with Poetry,

The Things They Carried.

But I want to graduate to The Great Gatsby

and learn how to write for myself

rather than for a grade.

I want to write

pages that will connect me

to the various sides of my personality,

to the different aspects of my education,

the people I can relate to,

the people who can relate to me.

One day I want to write in one sitting

a novel

that will begin with me

when the black ink touches the paper

and end with you when it is triumphantly closed

and slowly set down beside a warm cup
of coffee.