Down and Out

Wynona Stone is having trouble broaching.

She’d hoped to float. A stiff swig usually

appeases. Not today, though, nosireee.

Lunchtime, she turns the soaps on, doesn’t watch.

She eats ham slices, peeling from the pack,

and folds her clothes: a wad of poly-blends,

sanguine humor fading into pink

unmentionables. She thinks she needs a shot

of gusto, potent-proof, or—maybe, no—

she needs another preposition: at

something, her shot should be. That’s better, yes,

but what? A standard-issue happiness?

The headset voice: Is that not what you had?

Good question, thinks Wynona, and maybe so:

she’s not unhappy, but she’s not unsad.