A scream from the kitchen. The thud of a faint.
She sighs and arises and walks with restraint. Her neighbor lays peaceful, eyes fixed in a stare
She’s passed out in front of the new Frigidaire.
She looks at the rack with eggs in its keep Winking up at her’s the eye of a sheep.
There’s a bottle of PenStrep near the Swanson’s Pot Pies And down in the crisper’s a bagful of flies.
The butter tray’s filled …
