Nobody picked me first for anything. Games. Dates. Movies. Dinners. Lunches. Parties. Friends. Calls. Texts. Dates. I was always picked last. If I could gather them. Somehow, all of them. In front of me now. If I could stand on the mountaintops and scream into my twenties, thirties, and forties. Until I died of exhaustion. Take a look at me now, don’t bother at looking where I’ve been. So far, so long, anxious past. Good riddance, anxiety in the face of the public eye. I make my own memories, dreams, and watching my words fly gives more confidence that this can be done. I don’t need affirmative action. I don’t need pity, sympathy, or empathy. I just need time. It took six years to reach this goal. And now that I’m there, I feel it’s time to strike again. Finally, after nineteen years of bitterness. Somebody picked me first. To lead off a publication of poets. Incredible. Devereaux Frazier is where poetry starts.