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.

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