I’m never age appropriate. I’ve had
a wayward brain, eccentric attitude,
as long as I recall. I wasn’t bad
in deed or thought, but teachers called me rude
for asking natural questions, and my dad
admonished me for lack of common sense.
Frustrated early, often to a mad
extent, my childhood was tough and tense.

I didn’t get it right. Whatever gauge
my fellows have I’m missing. I can’t read
the signaling for how to act my age.
And though I won’t endeavor to mislead,
I’ll satisfy myself in word and look:
at 68 I’ll play by my own book.