skinny polar bear pajamas
There were lifetimes
and then there were lifetimes.
at first it was young.
i would try to take baths with my socks on,
an au-pair would clean my ears out
as i rested my head on her lap.
i endured misshapen hair cuts
inspiring boys to call me names
because you said short hair was
all the rage in France even though
we lived in new jersey.
second, just for a second, i wanted to
leave. and then i had to leave.
we packed up our lives into a moving
truck headed the opposite way.
the opposite direction of everything important.
headed the same direction as palm trees
which were nice to look at in puerto rico
but frustrating in december.
after that there was nowhere to sit at lunch.
no cafeterias, no convertible tables,
no blue, orange, red, or yellow plastic chairs;
no cold steel legs, no styrofoam trays,
no kuka's cookies, no quarter juices;
no buttered rolls, no ravioli.
just vending machines and trays and
student id numbers and wax paper
and ninety nine cent iced teas sold
for two dollars. just that.
but in the summer there was a pool.
shot glasses by the lounge chairs,
rolled up jeans, wet grass, tall, tall fences.
hopping the fence was surprisingly easy.
the first shot was surprisingly tasty.
i called everyone from so long ago just to
hear voices of so long ago. the voices
would overlap quite a bit. they grew up first.
for some reason it wasn't as easy
hopping the fence to get out.
the night at the pool was the beginning
to a lot. yeah, a lot.
every time i'd roll up my jeans to my knees
and sit at the shallow end.
how'd we get so lucky with pools
in every neighborhood?
pools are for rich kids. not here though.
it was a smashing good time!
except when it wasn't.
except when she turned on the flash and
embarassed us in front of the cops.
except when i drove the car across town
because i was so mad at you because
you never listen because you're a bad mom.
except when we became best friends
with traveling nobodies who knew
quality bonding with his mother
as shoplifting marathons.
(i take it back. you're not a bad mom.)
except when i liked that boy every day
and every night and each morning
because he smelled good because
he wore a self named cologne
called Asshole and he loved you instead.
On those nights i would lay in bed
and examine the ceiling (which wasn't even
my ceiling to begin with, nor was that
my bed). I would lay with my legs sprawled
about, dressed in my jeans even though i knew
how much she hated jeans because they
were dirty. I would lay in bed and wish and need
and want someone to talk to.
Someone kind of like you. Someone exactly like you.
and then there were lifetimes.
at first it was young.
i would try to take baths with my socks on,
an au-pair would clean my ears out
as i rested my head on her lap.
i endured misshapen hair cuts
inspiring boys to call me names
because you said short hair was
all the rage in France even though
we lived in new jersey.
second, just for a second, i wanted to
leave. and then i had to leave.
we packed up our lives into a moving
truck headed the opposite way.
the opposite direction of everything important.
headed the same direction as palm trees
which were nice to look at in puerto rico
but frustrating in december.
after that there was nowhere to sit at lunch.
no cafeterias, no convertible tables,
no blue, orange, red, or yellow plastic chairs;
no cold steel legs, no styrofoam trays,
no kuka's cookies, no quarter juices;
no buttered rolls, no ravioli.
just vending machines and trays and
student id numbers and wax paper
and ninety nine cent iced teas sold
for two dollars. just that.
but in the summer there was a pool.
shot glasses by the lounge chairs,
rolled up jeans, wet grass, tall, tall fences.
hopping the fence was surprisingly easy.
the first shot was surprisingly tasty.
i called everyone from so long ago just to
hear voices of so long ago. the voices
would overlap quite a bit. they grew up first.
for some reason it wasn't as easy
hopping the fence to get out.
the night at the pool was the beginning
to a lot. yeah, a lot.
every time i'd roll up my jeans to my knees
and sit at the shallow end.
how'd we get so lucky with pools
in every neighborhood?
pools are for rich kids. not here though.
it was a smashing good time!
except when it wasn't.
except when she turned on the flash and
embarassed us in front of the cops.
except when i drove the car across town
because i was so mad at you because
you never listen because you're a bad mom.
except when we became best friends
with traveling nobodies who knew
quality bonding with his mother
as shoplifting marathons.
(i take it back. you're not a bad mom.)
except when i liked that boy every day
and every night and each morning
because he smelled good because
he wore a self named cologne
called Asshole and he loved you instead.
On those nights i would lay in bed
and examine the ceiling (which wasn't even
my ceiling to begin with, nor was that
my bed). I would lay with my legs sprawled
about, dressed in my jeans even though i knew
how much she hated jeans because they
were dirty. I would lay in bed and wish and need
and want someone to talk to.
Someone kind of like you. Someone exactly like you.