To My Seventeen-Year-Old Self by Edward Hirsch

To My Seventeen-Year-Old Self

 

Your friends are sniffing glue

from a paper bag

in the back of an Impala

tooling around Niles

and Morton Grove

looking for something

to escape

whatever boredom

or childhood damage

everyone suffers,

but don’t get high

with them

in a sputtering car

that your girlfriend

refuses to enter,

don’t lie to her

after she moves away

and lie down with her friend,

don’t sob in the locker room

after the game

or lose your mind

from repeated blows

to the head

on the football field

at Niles West High School,

I mean whatever locker

you hit or don’t hit

in desperation

born of the suburbs,

just stand and wait

for the unexpected night

when poetry climbs through

the unlocked window

in the basement

of the split-level house

on Sherwin Avenue

and sits down at your desk.