Ramsey

by April 16, 2017 0 comments

My dad would say
we were from a
small town up North, so
close to New York City
that we didn’t
live in
Joisey.

Beaches of fake tans,
boardwalks of fake people —

Like the homeless man
stumbling through town
in work boots,
pushing his house in a
ShopRite cart.

I
didn’t belong.

Herds of mothers in
painted on spandex who
drove to Starbucks in
Range Rover Audi Lexus
top down Prius in sunglasses,
Jersey girl’s don’t pump gas
bumper stickers
and gossiped about
someone else’s
daughter.

They only had my name and
their twisted version of what

I
did in the woods.
(which was
partly true)

Strangers:
pitying my mother,
scratch out our insides.

I sat back in the corner and listened —

The witch cackled,
twirling hag hair around her
manicured finger
like it was someone’s
husband —

Until the high school boys
showed up,

threw cash
in my face,

and chased me
home.

– Samantha Hotz

editors note:

Rumors, reality; summertime suffering for both. – mh clay

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