the widow's song

through the hole
where his picture hanged
on a crooked nail
she peers
into a void
maybe inches
but maybe a lifetime
she built a life
on appearances
and so there were monuments
plenty of them
maybe memories of places been
but maybe ideals
the way things should have been
the day she realized
she could never have his heart
she bent a man
crooked
the way she hammered a nail
the only way she knew
and so she revered monuments
trinkets
no
not so much for memories
even ideals
but of conquests
exercises of dominion
more bricks in the yellowing wall
of a facade
for show
like a rustic wine cellar
in plastic suburbia
like remanufactured gifts
regifted
and ever so intended
that their worthlessness
cheapness
would be understood
loud and clear
message delivered
message received
she wiggles her butt
as she gargles wine
spits it on to the shag carpet
kicks the dog away with her slipper
sings
"hail to the victors"
as deep as she can go
the only thing
she could think of
patching holes
on a sunday afternoon