Becoming Me

The 21st century finds me,
staring down the electric range,
so not Plath-able,
even with miles of duct tape.
A garage full of boxes,
of unpacked books,
what would Sexton do with that?
No place to park after dark,
which leaves me, leaving me,
out in the open,
an empty husk,
no one the wiser,
to my undoing,
my coming undone
becoming me.