(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.)

getting to know you

Sorry for punching in that window,

the door was locked with presuppositions of what I’d think of you once I saw inside, so I

broke my knuckles open and climbed in through the frame.

Anyways, you scampered away, up the stairs,

while I opened up so many curtains to get a good look at all the rich carpeting and paneled woodworking –

it’s an amazing place,

(the stains, tears, dirt and mess make it perfectly yours)

but with those heavy drapes drawn over everything, I don’t think even you can see it.

So, waiting for you to come back down,

I’ll just make that cup of coffee and lie on the couch,

basking in your disbelief,

hoping desperately that I haven’t shattered you,

that we’ll be able to sit face-to-face

once I am inside.