Her food is merely her fodder.
Love and Romance pass her by. She and the husband vie with each other for solitary possession of their little nasty house. And her personality is not conducive to lovers.
She has nor chick nor child to mother.
Her idea of a life beyond this vale is crude and uncomfortable. She went two Sundays to the Finnish church and had a surprising lusty doctrine of eternal fire rammed down her throat: she took the Finn minister's word for it and quitted the fold, preferring to live this life unhampered by flaming anticipation. All her material treasure she works for with mops and scrubbing-brushes at thirty-five cents an hour.
Other roads being thus blocked it is sing-ho for King Alcohol in pint bottles.
Josephina is what is called a white liner. Which means that she has drunk so long, so much, so regularly that whiskey, rum, gin and brandy have no or negligible effects upon her. To achieve her intoxicating aim she must drink pure alcohol.
By the same token I eschew many a tame poet: I must have John Keats.
What the poetry of John Keats does to me I know.
What the distilled waters of her choice do to Josephina it pleases me to imagine while I watch her clean my walls and floor and windows.
