Empathy just makes her miserable,
but she’s the product of a mother
who gave hope to the hopeless for fifty years.
So long that her bedroom closet
was just a straight line of crumpled nurses uniforms failing to fit neatly into their original plastic covering. Her ashes went out into the world with the hope that something miraculous
would be attributed to the sudden, peculiar nature of the summer air.

She knows all about her mother. She has a faint grasp
of genetics.
Believes spirits don’t have to talk
or set your kitchen on fire to work their guiltless magic.

Resigned
and cheerful only when it seems like that obnoxious clown
who works afternoons on WNRN 103.6 FM is talking to her.

Fatigued
and overworked when she’s driving home from a long day
of praying for every ambulance that drives by.

Every spring chicken contributor to the wounded
who needs a Midwest hurricane to keep them on their feet.

Not one statistic is unaccounted for. They’re all granted
a funeral march that will last until the end of time.

The brave face production line is staggering. The punches
are taken on their behalf and the result
is a standstill
with no chance to roll.

She doesn’t talk to them. She doesn’t give them money.
She hasn’t lost a loved one in decades.
She eats red chicken sandwiches and smokes blue box Pall Malls.

There’s not a whole lot else to her,
except that she’s afraid of doctors and is remarkably
well-informed on TV shows she doesn’t actually like.

She crosses herself every time she bites her fingernails
and remains optimistic on the life-expectancy of goldfish.

She’s pretty, too.

01/30/2010

Posted on 01/30/2010
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