Her guts were shiny marbles spilled and skittering across the floor.
So much is lost, translated into English.
Whiskey does not help, not even with a drop of Irish blood.
The light screaming through the breakfast nook window
could not be accused of flattery or pretension.
Even the cat had disappeared.
She was on her own with the ketchup bottle clock.
Fists were no longer apocalyptic with knocking.