there is no modern romance

I came across this poem written by Barack Obama when he was 19. I found it to be pretty damn impressive.

Pop

Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I'm sure he's unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he's still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He's so unhappy, to which he replies . . .
But I don't care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I've been saving; I'm laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I've got on mine and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shink, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; 'cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop's black-framed glasses
And know he's laughing too.

Barack Obama

I like the lines, "What to do with me, a green young man/ Who fails to consider the/Flim and flam of the world," considering he is now the 44th president of the United States.

Instead of working on my portfolio, I've been reading non-school-related poetry. I am at the point where I have plenty ahead of me to look forward to but am uncertain about everything. I'm doing my best not to freak myself out but I'm slowly falling into this trap, as I do at the end of every semester. As much as I dislike the anxiety of writing papers hours before they're due and procrastinating at every chance I'm given, I'm going to miss attending classes. buh. Growing up sucks sometimes.

Here's another poem I just read by William Carlos Williams, the Man.

Between Walls

the back wings
of the

hospital where
nothing

will grow lie
cinders

in which shine
the broken

pieces of a green
bottle