The Grove of Our Living Room
I sit in the smell of orange
slices and still-damp hair.
Betty Jane says she doesn't know
the difference between love
and a commercial break.
She says her eyes are falling out,
someday they'll land in her soup.
So she puts down her spoon,
smells my scalp one more time
before shuffling over to turn
the television set on again.
Betty Jane says she's been everywhere.
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