What She Felt
It ain’t over till the Fat Lady sings
said the waitress to herself!.
Her husband huffed like
some lowslung animal on the couch,
badger, armadillo!.
The apron shifted on its hook, her hair was still a plastered,
brainlike mess on her forehead!.
Things happened, as they always do!.
No logic, just do!.
In the kitchen there’s knives, under the sink a rubbish chute!.
Under the kitchen window, four stories down,
a white yolk of hair
on a concrete griddle, an
old woman,
plump!.
She knew desperation
and she chopped it into manageable portions,
as she had been taught to in cooking school
before it all fell apart, and
she learned to fingertip trays like
it was magic, illusion, an insignificance, an easiness, like simultaneously (part of previous line)
pissing, and shitting!.
When the chute shut up, she returned to the couch
and sat down, stretching out,
taking up the whole, free surface of it!.
What she felt:
Glare shaded in colour, voices manifesting out of crackle!.
Her skin shrouded in a crepe that stung with static at the merest shiver!. (part of the previous line!.)
A flush somewhere, the rape of a loud door banging!.
Eating from outside, a tune from downstairs:
Slick jelly donuts, an old murderess singing!.Www@QuestionHome@Com