high school yearbook

here is the map that will chart out the rest of your life.
half that life so far, shrunken down to no more
than a few inches in either direction.

here is the girl you sat behind in homeroom
because her last name was next to yours.
here is one of the ones you believed you were in love with,
that you thought you would die for.

here is a crackhead, and over here is his dealer.
this one's pregnant, and that one's married.
the boy in the plaid jacket lost 100 pounds.
your good friend lost something much more important, six years ago.

you don't know what you yourself have lost,
and don't think it's that important that you don't know.
you're not a crackhead though: there's always that.
and you're not pregnant and don't plan on becoming so.

here is everyone you think you've outgrown, and some
who think they've outgrown you.
here they are in flat little photographs, like
little plastic action figures neatly wrapped up
in cardboard boxes, always awaiting your arrival
so you can take them down off the shelf and play with them.