In seventh grade Annie Winkler
told me the secret to popularity:
It worked for her until she kissed
Keith McKintyre. Popularity set
her hair on fire and walked away.
I wanted to be popular,
a birch tree with leaves looking up
to my tallest branch, fluttering
as each says I’m wonderful.
Dad cut the tree down,
said it should’ve been a maple.
I needed decades to be fine with being
someone you see in a mall
I heard Keith overdosed. Facebook laid
status update wreathes on his page,
a little pink
smile above brown hedges.