Why I Became a Poet

 

The paper mache puppet

I made for 5^th grade art class

received a C-minus.

 

I shredded multiple sheets

of newspaper, then made paste

from flour and tap water.

 

I loved dogs, and mine looked

friendly, though misshapen.

 

His dark eyes bulged,

and his smile was crooked,

though endearing. He fit

my hand like a flabby glove,

 

so I spread my fingers wide

to accommodate his girth.

 

My teacher was unimpressed.

The other students’ puppets

had been made by their parents,

 

and they looked like perfect

Disney cartoon characters.

 

Though my mother praised

my originality, I decided to

give up visual art and

 

turn to words instead.

So far, I haven’t looked back.