i pick fetuses and cigarettes
like flowers from a garden
in the morning
before i go downstairs
and brown my toast
and stir my tea.

i pick my friends
and arrange my outfits
with a careful prescision,
with the air of what
used to be a bohemian.

but now i'm in the suburbs
with an angel on one shoulder
and a boombox on the other

and it's playing the worst music
you can possibly imagine.

i pick fetuses and cigarettes
and i feel like a rebellion
just by walking down the steps
to water my greenfresh garden

of scarlet begonias and poppies
in my very very black skirt
in my very very short skirt
in front of the picture window