I fall at your feet
or at least where your feet used to be
or at least 400 miles from where they used to be
because you don't live there anymore
and I will be arrested if I go searching
for your feet there.
Those feet don't even exist anymore
except as cremated powder probably
on your stepdaughter's mantle
next to your long late husband's
Bitch won't tell me, or I would be
worshipping at your ashes.
I hope the maid accidentally knocks
you over and vacuums you.
Then you would be free.
Or at least trapped in a wad of dog hair
where you would be happier.