By Jared Meek
She stooped through the hollow kitchen
across creaking oak panels,
all torn from Stumptown Plot #42,
and laid down sixty years ago by R.L. & Sons.
She stopped the splashing stream, and
dried her cracking hands with polyester fibers
dyed purple with sodium vapors in Phoenix,
delivered to her front door by Frank.
She slouched over the bleached table top
bought at IKEA last week,
bringing the wet glass to her Vaselined lips, and
bit into a smoothie of lemons imported from La Luz.
She stared at the dry faces grimacing on the TV
as the sprinkler pattered her front window
and drowned her in
Anonymous Economy.
