A woman trapped by isolation, loneliness and the pervasive past.

There is a woman named Kitty
Who walks our neighborhood
In old cork clogs that she drags
Along the street.

She never recalls a name
Or precisely the day
But she remembers high school
And the cutest of three brothers
That took her to Vegas one night in summer
But left her at the corner
Of Koval and Flamingo
For a large-busted show girl
He called Sephora.

Kitty drinks wine in the late morning
In that big house where she was born.
Her father’s clothes in the closets
And half-feral cats in the yard
Her mom passed in a back room
Leaving her three antique cars
And a green canoe covered in tarps
And one new, white Hyundai.

Kitty lives life there in the shadow
Of overgrown trees and amber glass windows
That cast distorted reflections as she moves to and fro
With her glasses of Pinot and bottles of sadness
And her incontinent dog she calls
My Romeo.