(The Mindy Project says

that psycho people can make friends. That I

can make friends that stick. I will run up stairs

to find them. Gamble for it. Dance in the dark.)

The girl who did my nails had bright blonde bangs

and we talked about “down the shore”. Maybe

I am actually from somewhere. Maybe I have a tribe.

My Delaware valley accent is back. Outside smells

like the Easter baskets Nana Wagar gave us that one year.

I’m under the gun again, but with so much home stored up here

I can get back on that motorcycle and cruise over these buttery roads.

Someday he will sing “Sha-la-la-la-in love with a Jersey girl!” and I

will be that girl. We will stack rocks at the Cape May sunset.

The band will play again. I will get splinters on the boardwalk,

hell, maybe even a spray tan. No one would judge me for it.

My wanderlust has been beaten, frozen out of my heart.

I just want to sleep till noon and wake up somewhere

safe. I want to give my kids

this sandy soil, as it pours through my manicured fingernails

and (no one called me “weird”.) they will pluck tulips

and yell,”tractor!” The old folks church will smile

and take them out to breakfast. (as they loved me.)

first week.


Everyone else is saying “home”, while I say “here for now”. Back at uni

life is so scheduled, so safe,  so secure, no

one really has to try that hard to keep living.

The sky is already hinting at clouds, that the sleep of

winter is upon us tomorrow.

It doesn’t matter. I am still wandering around in light clothes

freezing these moments with my stupid little camera

Russian-roulette style. Sketching skulls in charcoal sticks because I can.

This is not real life, we are not this tame once released

but for now, it is easy-peasy

we are fed, clothed and taught what to do.

Blessing. I hope Tata can be proud of me.