That bar-girl in the nuzzling sweater
left the house this morning -- flooded
the basement first; she broke
a pipe trying to turn off the mains.
She threw away her wrenches, put on
pantyhose and a squirt
of the exes cologne, to cover cellar reek,
and is now going to dip into every bar
until she can find a catapult to fling her
across the state. Maybe she will wake up
in a place she has never considered:
Amish country, or Navajo Mountain;
most likely, she will wander
the eastern seabord until she loses steam.