She built a doorway of hard-done-by and walked straight into it,
then said she'd been beaten by the future.
She placed a putty god in a mushroom soup sky
like a bumper sticker on a car made of wind.
Go, Betty, Our Lady of the Tinkertoy Triptych.
It's sad magic to watch a woman become an infant,
plastic ring on a tiny fat hand, teething on the little vile grenades
she treats like dollies, dumb scapegoats to blame for her dead dandelion smile.
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for The Sunday Muse #212.