Ext. Polly's Runaway Train

It's not a matter of lacking
                              direction
It's a matter of lacking purpose
Like that Stephen Brecht poem
When you speed up your
                              movements
She remembers a
     bride and a groom
She remembers dust on
                    butterflies
She remembers a newspaper
     article:  Audrey Hepburn dies
All grace dies          she thinks
all beauty fades

And what of those butterflies
pinned to foam and mounted
glassed in and hung
in the basement
so that every time she
does the fucking laundry
there they are
sad butterflies

One day in a madness
she opens them all
ties little strings to each    and
dangles them from the basement
ceiling so at least on
her daily routine     she can
have the illusion of life

does it really matter (if)

her joy
her secret secret joy
her runaway train