Moth Balls In Her Eyelids

A jam
On the phone,
Rave
In the weeds.

The remorse
Was never as easy
For her—
 
A dictionary
Always one room away,
The thesaurus provided
Like thoughts of the next solution
To
The
First problem.
 
Language on the mind,
Loose memories
In
Parched taste buds.
 
The jam & rave
Were stiff glazes hung in
Her eyes
Like an old black-n-white photo.
 
Thick with moth ball scents
And
Not a bug
In sight
To be had.