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
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