I was not born for the rush of the stuff,
for the dollars swinging from their fingers,
for the forms and the plans and your John Hancock here, miss;
I was not born for highlighters and calendars
for instant play / messages / gratification.
I was not born for the diplomas and the dollars
to trade for houses in which to press sticky notes to my refrigerator
and maybe a few finger-paintings and Christmas postcards
until I’ve accumulated enough stuff to call it home.
my home and also my bills and utilities and extinguished light-bulbs.
I was not born for the rush of the stuff
so my world turns to me and raises its fist and tries to tell me
that I was not born.
But I was born.
I was born and I am here to prove it, fleshy and many fingered
with two legs and two elbows and round cheeks and green eyes
with lopsided bangs I chopped myself
with freckles on my arms and ink under my fingernails
and no dimples;
I was born.