When I was young,
A stood for Apple.
Apathy hadn’t entered the equation.
Each stroke on the line was a victory,
not this gutless retreat into myself.
I scrawl my letters
on anything that will hold ink.
In a combination of print and cursive
the teachers tried to alter,
but never could.
They didn’t understand
this is how the letters come out.
Jumbled and scarred.
With no sense of rhythm.
Now, I put my letters on the page
for you instead of me.
But sometimes A is just for Apple,
and you’ve misunderstood.
The letters drip from me,
like the slow leak before a pipe bursts.
As and Bs.
Xs and Os.
Like Alphabet Soup
and just as sensible.
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