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A quandary. Mom once said she loved me, just the way I am. So I wonder what would happen, if I became a clam. If her son was gray and grimy, slippery and sliy, an oversized hors d'oeuvre, would Mom still have the nerve? Good poetry gives me goosebumps. Calvin writes a poem about Mom saying she loved him just the way he is. He writes what he wonders would happen if he were a clam. If he was gray and slimy, an oversized hors d'oeuvre, would Mom still have the nerve?
Calvin says good poetry gives him goosebumps.