Nick Cannon told everyone
that he thinks of things
and makes them happen.
But then I think of the millions
of Nick Cannons, pilgriming
West, spilling out of buses,
only to be a story shared
by everyone else.
I tried to climb-up trees, but already knew
I would never be my friend, who never fell
to where I am at. I was never lucky enough
to be born with my friend’s hands
just as many hopefuls and wannabees weren’t
born with the right stuff, or were born
at the wrong time. I already knew
what my parents knew,
that I would never be president,
even when they told me I could be anything,
each time I fell.
I never ventured
West, because I knew
I would live long in this town,
with its many trees.
Written for the Thursday Prompt at Because We’re Poets.