Writer’s Block | Come In From Outside, The Street Lights Are On by Joe Lamberti

A Sunday series from RVA Magazine featuring writers from Richmond and Virginia

Writer’s Block is RVA Magazine’s Sunday series highlighting contemporary writers working in Richmond and across the Commonwealth. Each week, we feature original poems, short stories, or essays. Just real voices writing right now.

This week, we’re featuring “Come In From Outside, The Street Lights Are On”, a poem by Joe Lamberti, a Virginia-based writer reflecting on childhood, self-worth, and the often-blurry edge between belonging and alienation. His words live at the thresholds of cities, families, and selfhood where memory and doubt converge in sharp detail. Lamberti captures the ache of almost, the ache of growing up just outside the center of things, where even dreams feel slightly out of reach.

You can reach him at fromanartistsmind@gmail.com

If you’d like to be featured, send your work to hello@rvamag.com with the subject line “Writer’s Block.”

Come in From Outside Little One, The Street Lights Are on

by Joe Lamberti

I come from the midst of suburban Virginia, Woodbridge.
On the cusp of roads that belong to Manassas, VA
Near where Springs meets Minnieville,
Walking distance of a Food Lion that’s been there
Since before I knew what the price of milk meant.

I’ve lived my life along the edges of what looks like love—

The edge, where the cracks are widest.
Even my birthday is May 20th,
The day before the next astrological sign begins.

And that’s how all my life has been:
Along the edges of friend groups,
And schools,
And churches,
And family,
And myself,
And the universe.

Never truly accepted by any
Slipping through the cracks of broken homes
Behind locked doors
Where no one hears my screams.

And as long as I’ve lived, I’ve had waking dreams—
Dreams of a big, beautiful wedding proposal.
Dreams of a happy, put-together home.
Dreams of writing a book.

Simple things.
Simple dreams.

And yet all the scenes I’ve always seen
Seem hollow with broken seams.

Am I good?
Or am I simply the stupid son of a childish father?

Maybe he’s right.
Maybe my sister’s right.
Yeah, they’re probably all right.
And I’m all wrong.

No matter the talent I think I see
It’s a lie my brain plays on me—
Just like my dad always said
When he said anything at all:

Stupid is, as stupid does.

Photo by Sam Jurkens

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