upon a time
there was a feeble old woman
whose brain had turned bleaker than plath's last hour
language became a poor substitute for ...
she couldn't remember enough to write it down in time
before the thief from the other place came in
to forgive her
all the lamps in her house are always on, and she can't
understand why bogart is on every channel in the same suit
when pistols filled women's purses and men ate sharp
silvery things for breakfast
she stops now, listens.
yes her son is near
so she fancies herself up and props the kitchen table with
dinner ware, turns on the news and pastes on a smile
she loves her son.
if only she could remember his name
but that effort makes her cry
and she's always been a happy camper.