There is nothing to be done about that Great Erie Lake, deep as the kitchen
sink in her Dale Terrace apartment. It leaks into the creamed-corn cabinets
below and has need for the maintenance man on a wintry Christmas Eve.
Nothing is owed. When the ceiling starts to leak, the upstairs neighbor

flushes the commode, takes a shower or runs water in the bathroom basin.
The washer and dryer sing opera too tawdry. A rusted Niagara Falls
down the wall. Trash cans flood, tile floors are ankle deep. Stains stink
the carpet and ants turn back the long crawl through heater vents this January.

There has been thunder and ice since November and February is only getting worse.
Lightning. Clarissa turns 60. Her dreams all belong to France where merci means mercy
as she, an American only spit on once, hands a homeless woman brie.
Facing Ohio like this, anyone would want to go back to be spit on in France.

July is too wet. Wheat cannot be harvested. Jobs have been scarce since
the Autobiography of Red and there are not buckets enough to bailout
the rain. Witty Kitzie cat eats her bread and Del Monte Foods
stops thickening soups. History sifts through Clarissa's hands,

her tears drown this place. Kitzie sleeps in curls of fur and wool fabric.
The neighbor flushes the commode and the kitchen sink leaks as usual.
It will be tragedy here if Clarissa cannot get back to France. What else!
But to suffer the Ohio weather and eat Atlantic Fish without batter.