There is a writer
in the MTA’s Poetry in Motion program
(where the city provides
the huddled masses
a little bit of literature
to get them through
the trip to work)
whose birthdate is in a later decade than mine.
She is my junior
and she has her work heralded
on train after train in this,
the greatest of cities.
I have nothing.

What has she done
that I haven’t
to deserve such an honor,
other than submit to publications,
make her work known,
work in the field,
lead seminars
and live the life of a poet?
Why can’t I have
what she has?

Her poem
is pretty good,
if you like that sort of thing.