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.
for The Sunday Muse #212.