I know that I will never be

Poet Laureate

At some stuffy upper crust Higher Ed mannequin

Factory nestled in the middle of New Jersey

Writing tired old iambic stanzas

About calla lily blooms that

Allude to death even if in seventh grade

It was my dream life.

I know that I could never be

Your smiling Mrs.

In some snooty middle class townhouse subdivision

Classically nestled in the middle of the suburbs

Baking tired old apple pies

And knitting cable sweaters that

Bear your initials even if in fifteenth grade

It was my dream life.

I will land instead, like a galactic cannon busted meteor

Crashing and bleeding and existing

Somewhere soft and forgiving

In between

The extremes

Of my fantasies