Beatrix. Bea-trix.
Beautiful broadcaster of bliss.
Cuddly, cusser, cutie-pie kid.
Un-nerve…ing. Un-swerve…ing. Un-daunt…ed?
“Get out of there,” he yells over the crashing noise
like a foreman chiding a group that is not there…
except the blank stare of his girl.

I am so tired.
It’s really hard.
This poem’s done.