Little Freak Lost
Up North, like my Southern friends say,
I can count on the concrete,
something hard under my feet.
I slip a lot in the South—
fall off picnic tables,
lose shoes at bars.
I have a hard time with its wateriness,
call home, get J’s voicemail.
She’s all the dirt I need/
her voice frustrated when she calls me back,
but still: Are you okay?
How are you?
When you come home, let’s go to Primanti’s.
Without her, I’m a little freak lost
circling this world with no concept of time,
slipping in and out love.