stalking to a fro,
listless in a sea of indifference.
She is spying the great horizon
cynically as it takes as many steps away
as she can muster to go forth.
In her frilly frock, pounding
her black-tarred boots on the pavement,
she speaks like a Seussian monstrosity -
lackadaisically horrible in her affairs. All wavy trees
and firing pyres stoop as she comes
and offer no help with her box.
We all can see her, green dots
on green box carrying her life on her back
and step away to let her pass.
We are all scared of her boredom's ripost,
a gray turpitude as contagious as rhyming verse,
but fear her need for help the most.