“For James Andrew Spence” by M J Eaton

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Writing on my tablet sounds like a gun shot.
(So take the headphones out of your ears.)
It reminds me of typing in my bedroom
In Missouri as a kid.
(Who gets an electric typewriter for their sixteenth birthday?)
My first poems, starting at age three
Were as you can imagine.
I didn’t really have a clue until my Social Studies teacher told a story about man who had been in a war and been wounded
And would listen, but would never engage in conversation about it.
I went home and wrote the poem.
Showed him the next day.
He read it in class, and told me to send it
To a magazine that published it and that
Made me real in a way that few things have.
Being fifteen, I fell in love with him for a while.
I fell in love with poetry, too
But have never felt the need to get over it.

-M J Eaton

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