We rang the bell at my school
to commemorate collegiate success,
so after I tugged the cables
and heard the sweet ringing sound
representing eight semesters
of carefully completed curricula,
I wore some champagne,
drank some sloe gin,
and felt fulfilled,
accomplished,
good.

I had done it.
I had a degree.
I had become a grown-ass man.

The next day
I loaded possessions into the car
with my mommy and daddy
and drove back home.
I took the same job I had
last year as a college student
and made the same money
and lived the same life
but this time,
with a diploma
available on request.

I hung with high school friends.
I drank legally.
I biked around the city
and got my driver’s license
and read the comics
my mother had collected
since I’d last been home.

It was a good life
but eventually,
all young men must mature
and take responsibility
and grow, and so,
in the Fall,
come the new school year,
I moved back up to my college town
to hang with my friends.