the widows' boudoir luc simonic rain or shine my god, she sallied forth alone four miles every day before lunch for most of your short life telling silent stories to herself she listens like an ant. a worker ant. a buzzing bee. and your long distance dipstick says you need to add a quart. add some oil. make her more lubricated. she needs lubrication. she will dry up. she is a machine. she is mixed up of metal shavings and rusted corners and squeaks that no one has heard for 15 years. she is music to her ears until the sound she makes two days from now upon your desk. upon your bed. she is not so dry. you are sole audience to her 100 year flood.