Wow, it’s great to recognize yourself in somebody else’s poem.
When you can’t figure out how to stop
the war in Iraq, much less how to make
enough money to pay your mortgage,
moving the hundred and eighty dollars
from savings back into your checking
account as if that will help — when it’s
all you can do to acknowledge the actual
world and not lose yourself half the afternoon
in People Magazine where the movie stars
revolve like frosted cakes in a glass case
at the old Lady Baltimore bakery
on Throckmorton, before your home town
became so chic none of the kids
from your high school could afford
to live there — when you’re so tired
of reinventing yourself you want to lie down
on the road, right on the double yellow line
in front of your driveway, exactly where
two of your cats have been killed and wait
for someone to run you over but with your…
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