Joanna painted the box and worshiped
the god of malpractice whom she believed
was in cahoots with the god of miscommunication.
Joanna ripped the box to pieces and
started singing songs about Italian
ice and Sunday parties with big hats
and drunken brothers.
Joanna stood on the box and imagined
she was filing for divorce.
Joanna flipped over the box and began
screaming at her mother who happened
to be sitting on the edge of the kitchen table,
tearing up pancakes and throwing them to
the dog like pennies to a street performer.
Joanna sat in the box and believed in
miracles.
Joanna loved the box and cried when it left
her for another woman with granite colored hair
and a chipped veneer.
Joanna threw the box in the air and
ran for cover, satisfied with well-enough alone.