Clubhouse

Please let me in the clubhouse.
I have candy, dirty jokes and
magazines of filth.
I may not help your grade point average
but I promise to cause it no detriment.
I can help with geometry and algebra,
or maybe help you with your piggy bank.

I wear cool clothes and don’t do what I’m told
all the time.
But I won’t wear your letters shamefully
in public or at the local mall.
I’m different, I know,
but I don’t care about the other clubs.
They’ve always been too willing to let me be a part.

I can lend you secrets of the world you wonder
yet only write about.
Why watch movies in avid research?
I can tell you who she is, or who they are,
I can tell you what it feels like
and the year of the car her father drives.
I turn to new experiences
instead of turning the page
of another’s recollection.

Please let me in the clubhouse
and we can play your games.
I’d like to know what’s so special
that I cannot come in.
I doubt it’s something I haven’t
pondered in anxiety, persona, or voice,
nor dreamed a wet dream’s nightmare
about or viewed in some porno scene.
All I can offer is perhaps what you don’t want.
Or maybe it is that you’ve wanted it for so long
you’ve all given up.
But maybe I hit my social prime in high school.

I just bought another blazer
I’m not sure if it’s your style or mine.
I hope it’s not too cool, I hope it’s not too dull.
I cannot change the way I look, or the way I talk,
or my desire to become a member
of the only club that I wanted to be part of
that wouldn’t let me in.