Growing Up

Most teenagers are boring in the mind. The geniuses, those yet to be, as much As all the rest.      It is as if they’re blind To utterness unless it has a touch Of hormones in it.  Once I searched the old Card catalogue at Harvard and I found There Henry David’s teenage journal.  Gold It wasn’t.  Actually I almost frowned In spite of holding holiness there in My hands, his own handwriting.   It was bland, Containing  nothing Transcendental.  Thin Pedestrian, pure adolescence canned Is what he jotted down.  Of course I had No right to think it wouldn’t be just bad.