Betty Lonely

                                  Betty Lonely lives in a duplex of stucco on the north bank of a brackish river 

Her ears omit the noise from a nearby airstrip her mind floats beyond the snapper boats



Betty Lonely, her green eyes are roughly staring at a point through the sliding glass door 

Her heart lives over a drawbridge



Her brain is wet like a throw net



Betty Lonely, she will always think in Spanish 

Though I know her Spanish black hair 

It will start to fade she sunk her past 

Out in the surrounding salt flats 

Her maidenhood was lost beneath the Spanish moss



Betty Lonely just talks to her grandbaby 

Everybody else she blots them out 

But her words stick like a flounder gig her dry laugh is like a gaff