Mitzy Blair

Mitzy Blair was dead but didn’t know it.
It wasn’t existential, she was just plain dead.
Besides her cats, 401k, master’s degree, lovers,
her life expectancy fell off the charts.

She looked great, though.

Kept her weight down, Pilates routine up,
ate only some of what she wanted
but always what she should.
Her ex wished she was less perfect.

She was always friendly.

The problem with Mitzy was Mitzy
with a name that gave her angina -
not the real heart spasms pill-prompting kind -
but strangling the empathy with herself

And with a name that translated
into nothing particular,
she wondered what was the use
of keeping her identity intact.

No one suspected this, of course.

She didn’t move the world
to her side of the bed.
Instead, she tilted her head and wondered
why she was on the bed, at all.