Poemlet in Progress

I rescued this as-yet-untitled poem-thing from Reen's comment box.
Suggestions welcome, especially from those with a high skill rating in Brady Bunch Lore.


Some days, or evenings
when the moon has tilted,
when my personal orbits
seem threatened & my
shit's all out of wack, I feel
like George Glass,
Jan Brady's bogus boyfriend
who never had a chance
to feel sad, who never
really existed, like say,
the bug-loving Harvey Klinger,
who did.