Teen Poetry Collections


by a young man, age 12

When Mom’s not home we go to the park
and pick the plums from the trees.
You like the small ones, but I say
they’re not quite ready yet, they’re sour,
but you say you like it, you like the sour ones.

the plums aren’t there anymore.
All of them fell three weeks before I came here.
We went back to the park, and the plums
were all fallen, all rotten.

It will be summer the next time
we go to get plums from the park.
You’ll be six and want to climb the trees
to get them — You also like
bananas, so I call you Monkey.

I miss you.

Dedicated to my little sister