first poem in the beginning of the intro to writing poetry class a year ago

Among Crows and Giants

If I took out a pen for every wasteful thought I wanted to write by the end of the day,

At night it grows ignorance and scuttles away.

If I took out a pen every time I wanted to document a worthy emotion,

It would have the legs of a giant.

I do not know when my complications,

Became more than a worry about getting a ride to Mary’s house to play.

I do not know when I didn’t have a pen.

Most memories that I have are flashes of a shutter,

Printed on faded paper.

Faded paper and washed out colors,

Are the things my memory generates.

All I can really tell is these things are neither,

Memorably good, or memorably bad.

I consist of quilted indifferences,

Depicted with a brush consisting of a mere five bristles.

I remember seeing crows’ feet around my Dad’s eyes.

I knew just what that meant, crows feet.

Mary got married and stopped worrying about me being late to play.

I was now watching my Dad grow old just as he watched me.

I stopped attending church with my Mother.

Altogether, I stopped praying.