Senior Week.
No one here is young enough to see me.
I fly through the arcade,
turning somersaults,
flailing my arms like a clown,
hoping someone brought
their little brother
or sister
or niece or nephew
or cousin.
But who would bring a kid to Senior Week?
Parents know better.
They hear the stories.
I am so screwed.
The boardwalk never seemed so loud,
so bright,
so complete
as it does tonight.
I’m here
but not.
They stagger through me,
drunk,
half naked,
high school behind them,
the future ahead.
Do they know how lucky they are?
Some do,
those who’ve lost a friend,
a brother,
a sister,