Unsettled. That puts the situation mildly. No house, no car, no job. No friends, no family, no money. No dog, no cat, no bird. No shower, no clothes, no food. No shopping cart, no tote bag, no purse. No ID cards, no pawn tickets, no keys. No gum, no dice, no cigarettes. No security, no fidelity, no veracity. No where to go. No where to be. No way to live.
A tale to tell and a road to hoe. Some chains to mail and an arrow to feather. I shall reach your cottage by dawn and you will greet the new sun with a dense pillow over your face. They will wonder at the lump of coal nestled in your still, icy palm.
Next I will visit your father, your brother, your cousin, your son. Your grandfather goes unpunished by me, having succumbed to the deterioration of advanced years. No matter. Demons and brimstone await his arrival.
They said I stumbled at the funeral. I don’t know about that. But I did mumble while on the receiving line. Black is slimming, to the point of disappearing. Which sounds glorious. I’m wearing my late husband’s aviators. Their practical nature grounds me in objective reality. They keep me from being absorbed by the wallpaper, from being trapped behind the drywall. From being unseeable. Too bad.