Sharon


Sharon squeaked
in her click-clacker pumps,
catastrophically clattering
through the clutter downstairs—
catching the drips or drops
on the top shelf of her lip,
with the plips and plops
underfoot, squelching,
and the mindless buzzing and flickering
of the basement
(like electronic wasps,half dead).
Sharon sipped and slurped
the dark world below
as if she didn’t give a damn
that it wasn’t where she was supposed to be.

She didn’t, of course.

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