Of Fitting in to the Most Peculiar of Places
I love these 'Nada Surf' days,
Of jumpers, and jeans,
Of smoking stolen cigarettes in
The finest rain.
I found a lake, nearby,
I never knew existed (or maybe I did),
Only the trees to bear witness,
To my trespasses.
A child's swing set still stands,
In the loneliest of play parks,
Half swallowed by the earth,
The see-saw long since removed.
Flat, water-saturated concrete,
More even than my bedroom floorboards,
Let alone my roads,
This place isn't mine.
I don't belong.