I want you to go
To preschool
And mash the crayola crayons
Into tiny shards of wax
And bulldoze every block tower
With your sticky-fingered fist
I want you to use your
outdoor voice
During silent reading time
And if you want permission
To get a drink or pee
March right out of that room
And if your teacher asks
About raising hands
Raise your finger for her
Instead
I want you to smoke
In the girls room
And the boys room for that matter
And decorate your spray-painted
Locker door
With every detention slip
I want you to move away
After trading your cap and gown
For cigarettes
And setting your D- report cards ablaze
To some bohemian city
Where you write the book
That changes how people think
And I want you scream
And punch the wall
Every time someone claims
“I knew you were gonna be a star”
