A long time ago, my dear friend and fellow Jersey girl Jaime and I were talking about our bad teenage poems, and she asked me if I'd ever think of posting some on my blog. At the time, the answer in my head was a resounding NO, but I seem to have lost some of my self consciousness because today I was going through my backup files and found this poem from college and just had to post it. Why? I have no idea. But this is for you Jaime ;)
I like it when the boardwalk
isn’t mine. Pavilions full of locals sit
in the same place every night. Better to be
moving through crowds of mostly strangers
always seeing someone I know, always someone different.
Smells of sand and salt and buttered popcorn
and the faint hope that some perfect summer guy will
approach me with a pick-up line fresher than the popcorn.
Somehow,I tell myself, dragged by friends into the deafening arcade,
It’s still exotic. Iconsent to one game of air hockey
and slide past the “Please No Smoking” sign on
the cigarette machine to change my five dollar bill. I play distracted and the buzzards
who might have gone to high school with me
see me losing and start circling the table.
I yield it to them, and leaving my friends to their shooting games
I slip outside to watch the Shoobies in their
tank tops and black socks moving through the crowds.
Someone drives me home and I sit up for a while.
The smell of boardwalk sticks to my skin
and my hair and my high school sweatshirt and I feel dirty
and alone. The house is quiet but
the arcade rings in my ears. I try to calm myself with
fudge or taffy, and when that fails
I take an hour long cool shower
to wash away the grime and tears
before I sleep.