The attic. I want to go in that one.

I’m gonna rid myself of every bad thought and pretend that meaningless rituals are meaningful and I’m gonna chomp a saltine cracker and I’m gonna be a toothy smiling idiot who says her prayers every night and pastes photos in albums every once in a blue moon and goes to swap shops and studies the Constitution.

I’m gonna get my own home and care someday and shoulder my own load. And I’m gonna take a bus and see the Continent and I’m gonna write it all down and edit it and do it again again again. I’m gonna be like a child with a candy bag at the Fourth of July celebration, grabbing whatever junk life throws my way. If I don’t like what I write, I’ll shred it. I ‘m gonna fall asleep under an apple tree and dream about Stalin. I’m gonna buy myself a lap dog and take it for a walk every day until it gets run over by a bus. I’m going to say in Jesus’ name amen amen amen amen amen. I’m gonna stare at the moon like it’s half-eaten communion wafter. I’m gonna say hello to my momma once she gets home from work, Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays. I’m gonna fill in Dad’s silly words and listen to him talk. I’m gonna snapchat Joe and see David and be nice to Zoey. I’m gonna pretend to be fine and never cry unless the Noodle-roni is poisoned. I’m gonna send my stories publishers and get rejection letters rejection letters rejection letters. I’m gonna dream that dead people are alive and that living people are dead. I’m gonna open the refrigerator and wonder what’s for dinner.

I’m gonna ride my bike and come home and put it in the garage and say amen and close the door. I’m gonna remember to turn off light switches when I leave a room. I’m gonna be dutifully disgusted by Joe’s lifestyles while secretly hoping I’ll be an aunt one day. I’m gonna feel sorry for Dad’s maladies. I’m gonna not mention my dead grandparents and siblings or aunts. I’m gonna sit on the radiator like a cat when winter comes again. And then I’ll wrap presents and say Merry Christmas and Happy New Years and start the cycle over and hope that an asteroid doesn’t swipe too close to rotten old rotten old planet earth.

I’m gonna graduate one day and Mom will be crazy. I’m gonna publish a book one day and Mom will be crazy.

Mom only writes about trailer people. I occasionally wipe the kitchen counters and wash the dishes.

A train is shrieking by, harsh and tritonic in my soul One day I’m gonna move away so I never have to hear that awful sound again.

When the chalkboard’s wiped clean I wonder what’s left to learn. And the typewriter goes clackety clack and the washing machine whirs. And the apple tree struggles to put out a few measly green balls this year.

I’m gonna be thankful I don’t have leprosy and never go to fortunetellers and look wistfully at kids trick-or-treating.

I’m gonna pitch my tent in the middle of the freeway under the traffic light and just observe people.

I’m gonna find myself a boy who’s not like my dad and understands the missing puzzle-pieces.

Maybe I’ll adopt a little baby from China who will grow up to play Frisbee.

Maybe the world will end and we won’t ever have to hear “Having My Baby” ever again.

Tomorrow is Tuesday and I’ll have to take out the trash. Today the railroad workers say unintelligible things over their walkie-talkies.

I’m gonna pitch my tent by the ocean and watch the tides and gulls forever and ever.

Amen.