I come with Mattel-issued
razor blades, Xanax, wine,
and a glittery pink gas oven.

My best friend Midge
is now my on-call therapist,
freckled face super ego,
except for the time
she was reincarnated in 1969 as P.J.,
love beads in her braids
and a psychedelic mini dress.
We do not speak of the bad acid trip.

She took the keys to my pink Corvette.

Now, she and pudding-faced Alan
shop at Whole Foods
to feed their ever-expanding brood,
loading recyclable burlap bags of
organic food into the back of the Prius.

I am poet Barbie,
chain smoking
and day drinking
in the basement
of my dream house,
pink, perfect, plastic.

I am poet Barbie,
thrift-store black clothing 
and Kurt Cobain Ken
each sold separately.

No one puts this doll back in her box.