Janet

Janet operates on some fuel – 
there’s a canister on her table
world around her might seem too cruel,
so she’s drinking it to feel stable

colored pink with outlandish flowers – 
Janet painted them to count years
lost in contracts and after-hours
and unsatisfied, it appears

got a linen dress from an island,
it began when she started travels
counting silently every mile, and
watching pathway as it unravels 

sending telegrams like it’s olden,
shortens words as if each one’s pricy
watching sunsets, exclusive, golden,
choosing dinners, exotic, spicy

and believing in strange conclusion:
nothing’s useless on freaking planet
even canister’s vague illusion
is enough to support a Janet