It's true, it's true. A deep dark secret of my past. Back in sixth grade, we had to submit a poem for a school-wide contest. The winner got his poem submitted into an annual nationwide poetry contest, and those selected winners got their poems published in a little book entitled Anthology of Poetry by Young Americans.

I was, by good fortune, selected among the winners. Hence, on page 149 of the 1992 edition of the Anthology of Poetry by Young Americans, the following appears:


Where the rug meets the floor
That's where we are now,
Come with us to the edge
But please don't have a cow.

Where the last fiber of rug
Meets the ever present tile,
Many things can be seen
Just look around for a while.

The floor? Well, it's brown
Not much to see there,
But the rug? That's different.
Look around! But take care.

Animals, borders
People too,
Two donkeys are kissing
On the grass there is dew.

But no-- That's not all!
There's much, much more
But to find out what it is


where the rug meets the floor.

Ian Serotkin
Age 12

Yes, I know. A truly wretched piece of writing. I can only imagine what the submissions that didn't make it into the book looked like.

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