it could be worse
i could be sitting at avenue B & Tompkins watching the effluvium crawl up the bricks waiting for my next spike
i could be a failed painter
i could be pregnant
i could be married
i could have a cubicle in which to toil
i could be in a bread line
i could have never been published
another unsold Christmas tree poet
i could be in new jersey
pretending to be a different sex
to escape my mistakes
i could be in Florida…
i could have never known love
but i’m not
i’m in Suburbia
waiting for my genes to catch up with me
reading good books
with a dead thyroid gland
until my tits rot off
or the allure of daddy’s suicide
gets me first