I thought after I had my own place,
I'd finally have girls in my bed,
the kind that read in coffee shops.

But after too many failed apartment getaways
and 2,346 miles of stories
that could brim a hundred journals,
I'm in my old room
with the same songs and
the same parents, with
the same questions
about the same girlfriends who
have new boyfriends
with new cars,
more money,
more testosterone.

But they won’t walk out of a job
with both middle fingers in the air,
towards the road.
It won’t even enter their minds.