cars will one day reside in the museums of hate

ELIZABETH


Betty is going to be fine Mr and Mrs Walters, all she needs is a good nights sleep

She is underneath the house playing with her dolls. Her mother's voice flys away
off the back step. It has been this way for a long time, the close distance.

Near yet so far so good god in heaven name that tune

That's a funny way of saying grace she thought looking first at her father, then her mother.
Her father nodded in approval and they all began their meal. Betty's father stabbed out his words.

The cockrels ill again

Why don't you take it to the vet suggested her mother


The rusted gate bends it's iron bones and creaks in sympathy
as if it knows of the images sent to haunt a childhood sleep.
The fevered heat of bronchial nights, a infant sickness that thickens
the air. Sweat wetted pillow and sheets.
The human dogs pace outside her windows.


Betty is 26, her mother says she is addicted to self sabotage.
Since the age of nineteen she has not kept a job more than six months.
Welfare classified her unemployable.
She can't handle responsibility her father says