I long for adolescent rerun,
my childhood on repeat at eleven.
I wait for the orange Nickelodeon blimp
to fly across my screen.
My mattress, a prickly mountain lies beneath me.

I am waiting for a preteen Disney marathon
so I can sink into a microfiber couch,
the color of an old television set. I wait
for television shows that don’t fit my age range,
for Family Guy to puzzle me,
for South Park to be the last show I watch,
for mom to storm in-pretend sleeping.

I am waiting for Halloween classics
to fill up TV guides like pigeons in the summer,
Jeopardy to end so I can have control;
the remote flips through my life for three hours.
I’m waiting for free cavities and juvenile smiles.

I am waiting for Big Brother
to premiere Friday night. I’m waiting
for the beach, waves brush over my scrawny legs. 
Jersey Shores trap me in a riptide and keep swallowing.
I am waiting for the alphas to stand and surf over the rest of us.

I am waiting for more responsibility—
to live alone and feed myself.
Spring into adulthood,
let jump rope games move past 12th grade,
I keep skipping.