The zip code of nostalgia
Take me back,
to when mud flaps hung off cars with one screw year round,
when waking up in the morning was the default,
because the excitement of a new day was too much to contain yourself in comfort,
besides, squeaky spring bases of beds always sunk you down into discomfort.
Take me back,
to when you’d tip toe to the living room,
to turn on a rotary dial TV,
whose clicks you’d try to muffle with your jumper,
so you could sneak in a cartoon or two,
before you loaded up on a sugar and milk laden breakfast.
Take me back,
to when holding your mother’s hand,
walking to school was not uncool,
but squeezing back and forth was a competition,
of who loved who more.
Take me back,
to classrooms where teachers greeted you with cheer,
with the rank smell of sandwiches in the bin lingering near,
an appetiser to get your work done,
so you were allowed to go out at recess,
and breathe the playground bins instead.
Where football on gravel, bloodied knees and palms,
were signs of a game well played, badges of honour,
where you always had at least one fight per recess,
enough to keep you on your toes knowing,
soon your number might be up to test yourself.
Take me back,
to when a nugget was introduced to the world,
and it wasn’t so laced with MSG,
where kids eating them might get fat, but not ADHD.
How about when report cards were hand written,
and words like conscientious were still written,
and ‘shows potential’,
meant you just warded off into a trade and made money,
whilst your friends remained at school,
still trying to sound out words,
still handing in assignments, hand written.
Take me back,
to where carving on desks was in,
words relating your ongoing suffering,
like ‘I’d rather be dead’,
oh that’s right, you can’t,
because the zip code of nostalgia,
is a number of a place in my head.
W.E.
lonerloaner 