Fill up the basin, see it drain
your dreams –
circle around the white porcelain
like watching the headless horseman, carrying the weight
of its thoughts in its hands and riding hard until
they go out through a vacuous shard.

Every afternoon is the same
Fill up your purse with things so diverse –
as cosmetics, alcohol, candy and clothes and rush out the door
without being exposed for the illicit stunt.
Another victorious scavenger hunt!

Every evening is the same
Fill up the martini glass with enough *****
to make you pass-out on the couch so you can forget
about your useless life as each poem you write
wilts. Besides, they only think you’re made of fluff. You’re dead as the skin cells that slough off in the bath.
There can only be one Sylvia Plath.