She thinks only in her own

sadness, in her own anger.

Her broken tipsy record

aimlessly spins & drunkenly skips 

amid screams of 'nobody knows.'

She's sure she's the only one

that has had to sweat to the oldies

while contemplating cocaine remorse.

She's the only one

that eats cigarette sandwiches

on the corner washed down

by with for Heroine Heiny Henrietta

whatever wherever he she is these days.

Only her hairdresser

went on a meth binge &

gave her a slant because

it's what his yoga teacher would've wanted.

So she holes up in the backwoods of Queens

swilling dime store hooch & generic doritoes

with an unavailable lover, her weedy king.

Stuffing her life into

knock off handbags &

to-go food containers.

She yearns for the safety of

a backyard & oreo cookies & sweat pants.

The Gotham Cookie Crumble

But this is New York City, doll baby.

We don't do jogger suits.

All of this has happened to all of us

and then some.

Buck up.

Besides you carry the slant well &

somebody's gotta be Richard Simmons' bitch.

So get ready to wait.

Start plugging your nose.

Don't clip your nails on the train.

You'll be fine.

"somebody's gotta be

Richard Simmons' bitch."

  by Angela J. Perry