My 17th Amendment

It was the year of 1985,

in March, to be exact.

A prince was born 

on its seventeenth day,

barely weighing a pair

of pounds—

lucky, or chosen?

Chosen is the fairer word,

while I wince at the thought

of being spared by a charming 

entity picking clovers 

over dandelions.

Gold at the end of a rainbow

wasn’t how I came to know

that I was precious,

rich in allotments of being 

favored by wind-spread DNA.

—JG ©2026