Perhaps I could have realized my dreams,
had novels lined on shelves in every store,
my name on all the spines, fans wanting more.
I'd buy my printer paper by the reams;
One different decision, other paths
pursued, I might be up there on the stage,
a god to screaming groupies half my age,
who'd give me head to sign their photographs;
But then I might have been a drunken wreck
like Hemingway, or died of overdose
in some record producer's opium den.
The happiest might be the path I chose:
day job, my daughter's arms around my neck.
Perhaps this is the best it could have been.
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