there's a woman in rags with a hunched-over back

never believing her life can correct

her bitter blood, veins in braids pumping

and pumping forever her hate

her brain, corroding in on itself

she never goes out or shouts

so in time it dies, bit by bit,
bullshit. in a blaze of confusion or pain

her hatred collides with love

all insane and discussing her mane

with an dove in a garbage dump

and he knows how she is- she can't understand

his words, though she feels his heart

and she cares for his flimsy whims, and shares
discussing his flight into unseen snares

how this pair of dead dreamers careen

pipe dreams and schemes for a different life
but the hackles are raised and shamed
there's blame and it's time to call it a day

so she goes back to bed in her ramshackle hut

cracks a walnut and falls back in a haze

aided by old man benadryl, 
and a ham with a vino glaze

mildly enraged, for the sizable pile of pills remind
of a time with fun fancy days and more wine

and parties and plays; people and tables and trays