Shit, I stepped off the plane
& onto the moving walkway
robot motion of human habits
& recognized that I don’t want to be here.
But being the air is always only temporary.
I try to remember the feeling of summers off in elementary
walks to the gas station with my mom
buttered rolls, tea light and sweet
the white Bronco chase on the news
when I slept upstairs with Poppy
tickle me Elmo and Nintendo64
watching Buffy for the first time
a crush or an idol I couldn’t tell
but I still tried to kick shit in the face
punk pits smelling of dank, must and stale 40’s
I am pretty much a stale 40.
Suspended in the air.
a product of the 90’s with electric color patterns
there’s a metaphor in the beanie baby craze
I always thought we’d grow old together.
Now I’m not sure I’ll grow old at all.