i’ve lived along the wrong
traintracks,
half a chromosome off
from the abandoned ivy
school i would have
attended, had i been
led by what i’ve been
looking for.
nobody really knows me here.
it takes a special type of person
to read the tea leaves in
the bottom of the mug I
leave to dry.
and this still stands:
i don’t know how to share the air still
trapped in my lungs.
because air doesn’t mean much
if it is not being swallowed as a
last chance.
and i know i’ll be able
to leave isolation behind
and write a poem to
live in

Speaking of the kids in my hometown

we used to walk the traintracks obsessively

like they’d lead us somewhere

like they’d show us something

like the end of the summer was just a bookend parallel line with the river by the library card that promised if i only read enough books i could get out of there and over the moon.

just parallel lines, but they made as much sense as any other way out.

And the gazebo where the high school band played

and I swung on my first date