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