Twenty-One Years Old Poem by Jacob Bearer

At 21 years old
I still like to bang
on plastic plates and cups
with chopsticks -
as my brothers' stare.
And I did cry
at the end of The Notebook -
why couldn't she just remember him!

I bought a slick Kohls jacket
all suede and pockets,
but I recently put my corduroy
brown jacket back on, still smelling
of bong hits and black outs.

College taught me to like Cartel and Maher;
but nothing can beat a chilled Dewars
with rings bouncing in the glass
to Toby Keith's "Angry American."

I thought that I already had a doctorate
in the Social Sciences,
as a Sophomore,
speaking of Malthusianism
and Neo-Darwinian selection;
but, these days I just sit in class
lips resting together, letting them rise
only to ask professor metaphysician,
"What the hell is going on? "

In my more serious moments
when deciding between soft-serve
chocolate or vanilla,
I choose twist -
because I'm a moderate at heart.
I quite smoking,
switched from Starbucks to Green Tea,
then back again,
because being a tea-drinker
is too hard an image to hold.

Twenty-One years old
wearing a t-shirt with a tie.