By the time I started sophomore year
I knew I wouldn't be president
But there were still books to write
and the front of the procession
to march in
wearing a velvet lined hood
On the other hand
there were three pairs
of tiny fists that once grabbed my hair
to watch uncoil, unfurl, reach outward
Today when I rise
it's possible to sip my coffee slowly
until it's cold
and to watch the swans float by
on a pond that will never be mine
