It's there, in thirty-six point Baskerville,
Your name, and then for subtitle: "A Book
Of Memories and Records". A sharp chill
Shivers your nerves, and yet you have to look,
Athough already you feel slightly ill.
You turn a page, as nervous as a crook.
(From this point, though you'll wriggle and lash out,
You're hooked, as surely as a landed trout.)

A scrapbook, made by someone quite devoted:
Your birth certificate; your school reports;
Each tiny detail of your life is noted.
Six photos of you on a beach in shorts;
And one that shows how bumptiously you gloated
The day you won third prize at Infant Sports.
You are intrigued, disquieted, dismayed,
And turn the pages where your life's displayed.

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