By Dan Provost
This started as a mistake
She never wanted to be so observant of her surroundings that every frown or smile would lead to examination of being….
A stare, punks gloating over some conquest at the bus stop…conversations about business, trips to the market, plans for the weekend.
All blending gibberish that melted into faceless interstates, offering further worthless stories about a life in a day.
This became a diagnosis…
Troubled, agitated, depressed, all DMS III jargon—giving confused emotions a nice label.
A dysfunctional hero, a woman on the maladjusted brink.
This ended with a jump off the Pearl Street Church roof.
Clutching at Straws 