Sondra’s bubble burst slowly,
taking its time to tear open
and pour out all its air.

The exact moment
when it began is still unclear.

Her mother was sure
the first prick of the pin
came with the first puff
of a joint, at fifteen;
her sister thought
it was that man in college
who slept over for two weeks straight
and then never called again;
teachers remarked on
unfulfilled ambition;
bosses and
various coworkers
from each of her series of jobs
spoke of struggles to be
remotely employable.

Her father had his own ideas
as to what might have caused it
but moved across the country
to keep them
from coming out;

but it was Crazy Jim, who met her
in Spottswood Home
years after, when she was flattened
and shapeless, who may have said it best:

she was like a Frisbee
someone tossed
that got stuck on a roof.