you go to a nice grade school
an even nicer high school
you go off to a decent university
eighteen summers add one....
you fall in love;
get wasted, baked and burned—
have all the experiences that shape you into
the person you were all along.
coming back one winter afternoon,
you're spread across your rooftip
staring out into the blank waste
—hoping you were some kinda born-poet in the first place.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem