She sits in stolid silence,
rocking obsessively in a chair
not made to do so.
She contemplates a life askew,
and ponders the ramifications
of reflections that don’t stay
where they’re reflected;
as a result,
any shiny surface
is draped in mourning cloth.
Making sure to eat jam
with every meal,
she rewards herself
every other Friday with
rabbit stew.
She divides her days,
playing solitaire and trying to master croquet,
and systematically
rescuing -- then discarding -- neighborhood strays,
convinced every night
she sees them smiling.
She knows that curiosity
did not kill the cat,
and consequently barricades her doors,
terrified that -- even now --
satisfaction will bring him back.