by Samuel Derrick Rosen

Tomorrow is her birthday,
in the middle of the night
she waits,
on a scattered dawn,
a canyon in the clouds,
she closes her window,
on 500 years,
she is the "victim",
disillusioned daughter,
she pens curses
to ex-boyfriends,
uses words like "pussy",
and "suicide",
and "simulacrum",
listens to Joni Mitchell,
reads Maya Angelou,
drinks vodka
and pineapple juice,
envisions trips to Paris.