Two Going on Forty

I never dined and ditched, since I was “bright.”
I just smoked funny smelling cloves and “kale”
in public, with impunity spelled “white,”
“cis,” “hetero,” “well-heeled,” and–best part–“male.”
And I rejected privilege! It was wrong!
At seventeen, I bought my own damned car!
I parked it past the tracks, to hit the “gong.”
(It rhymes, I think. That apple don’t fall far.)
See, I knew I was marked to rule the class,
and I knew that tattoo was inked in blood.
Hand me my final! (Drunk, but bet I’ll pass.)
I dropped it, free, and, “After me, the flood.”
I am no longer three, or seventeen.
What grace I had was far beyond the mean.