820 Pennlyn Ave

Before the Jersey Shore became a big fist pumping joke, it was a fantastic place I used to visit as an adolescent. It was where I did most of my growing up. Here is the collective of my experience.

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I recognize the last four miles

The cobble and heat

The length of the street

Half an inch more on the stone-laden tiles

Here we are again

My warm crowded friend

Wiser this time, a clever new lie

A new pair of shades

Gone by the last day

And past the horizon, a nonchalant try

My note in the drawer

The sand on the floor

The mark on the bench I swear it was here

Although I saw red

He chose me instead

Under the O on the Wonderland Pier

The smell of the night

The feeling of right

Off to the blinking of coming-of-age

I remember the attic

I remember the static

A platform of splinters, a long makeshift stage

I bought you that key

That key part of me

The very last evening the gold knuckled ring

The fall in the nose

The last desperate pose

Nothing will change here, not one single thing

And I’ll always have

820 Pennlyn Ave