Can't say just what
a paper mill
with its smoke stack
on high has to do
with despair,
but they both stink--
we could smell
them well--
set clocks by
dust of moody times.

In the end I poked nails
in the bubble wrap
of our wedding gifts--
just let the raft sink
because it wanted to.
It was a cold divorce
that matched the ice on
your mustache.
Came from sorrow's
I knew nothing else to do.

Money was one oar
I fiddled with
in an effort to
patch things up.
It helped some,
but didn't last long
or matter much
like saving a toe
when a brain is gone.

Janet Buck