Making Friends in the Freshman Dorm

I'M SICK OF POEMS about perfect listeners,
money-lenders, gift-givers.

These poems don't tell
of nasty fights
that last for days,
of note-stealing
and phone calls
at three in the morning,
of secrets confessed
at midnight talks,
and how everyone knows
you sucked your thumb,
wore a padded bra,
and practiced kissing
on your Cabbage Patch doll.

A real poem should be pondered
and tell the truth.

Friends are back-stabbing
clothes borrowing
two-faced spiteful chits.

Now THAT'S a poem.

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