This degree is a badge, not a tombstone
or it could me the makings of the next decade
I’ll procrastinate on being an adult
while my father leaves our house and
drives his new used Porsche around,
In the swells I play my Stratocaster
alone in the dark and I’ll make the sounds
of waves and
anger.

I’ll be lifted up by my collar bones
my speech will be the sounds of ripping paper
I’ll lose all contingency
And say good bye to serendipity

It will be my last known surroundings,
The trembling hands of human qualities
Be comfortable, creature, creator,
Let me back in.