If I were you:
 
Screw up today, and it’s solitary, Sister Woman, the padded dress with the
food log to gnaw upon. This is where you enter the eye of the fart. The air
is foul. The dirt is gumbo. Avoid all physical contact. Come nightfall the      
bugs will carry you off.
          I don’t have a clue, do I.

          If you were me:

If you wanted blueberries you could have a big bowl. Two dozen bushes
right on your hill. And thornless raspberries at the bottom. Walk bare-
footed; there’s no glass. If you want to kiss your kid you can. If you want a
Porsche, buy it on the installment plan. You have so many good books
you can’t begin to count them. Walk the dog to the bay every living day.
The air is salted. Septembers you can hear the blues jumping before
seeing water through the vault in the leaves. Watch the wren nesting in
the sculpture by the shed. Smoke if you feel like it. Or swim. Call a friend.
Or keep perfectly still. The mornings are free.

















                                                                    If I were a felon I’d be home now.