{1987}
Not a whole lot
of sense, too much sensibility,
the ability to do the splits but
not split when he is less than all.
A boombox and some Air
Supply and a place to cry,
alone. A phone
that doesn’t ring when she
wants it to, bring her the
things she thinks she needs.
Some legwarmers,
but nothing to un
-cool her heart, restart
her soul. Some Polaroids.
A bulletin board full of words
she hopes.
She dreams
in color – denim,
taffeta, sunset. And yet,
she wakes
to tears.
She sports a cheer
uniform
(or two), the moody
blues of
(weird)Al
-gebra and the Rubaiyat
of Omar Khayyam. An old type
-writer. A dozen journals. Too
many pens.
She’s about to get
some things she lacks
(a raise, some praise)
,
but not
(for quite some time, still)
her groove
back.
..
Whimsygizmo's Blog 
De, I am FREAKING OUT over this poem!!! Yes yes yes! This is exactly what I wanted. 🙂 You are just so dang awesome! Please write more of these. Channel some more teenaged days, please. I am really so very enamored of this. It really shows off all your best assets: your ear for rhyme and rhythm, your genius line breaks, your word splits (and real splits).
Boy do I know this well:
“when he is less than all.
A boombox and some Air”
So gorgeous:
“She dreams
in color – denim,
taffeta, sunset.”
Ahhh, this is so fulfilling to read. Thank you!!!
Oh this brushed me a few times and finally swept me away!
Sent from my iPhone
>
I love this.. so much of those days… so much to remember… somehow too many pens really made me remember the girls of my teens…
Oh, my gosh. I went through sooooo many pens.
I only had a single HB pencil at a time.