I’ve picked out the photo I want them to use if I’m abducted

by some wacked fuck in the Wal-Mart parking lot.

I’m wearing my Love Boat dress: the brown, shimmery

Bubble mini laughing, shaking it on the dance floor.

My hair is disco, though my roots are coming in. I feel sure somewhere,

some bitch watching the evening news will notice and criticize over her foie gras

or scrambled egg sandwich. Even though I will probably be lying in a ditch somewhere,

eyes and legs wide open, snow beginning to hide the crime I will have become.

A file some detective will set his coffee on for the next ten years.

But hopefully, someone will stop chewing and put down their fork long enough to say,