(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.)