Work.

You worked your way into a divorce
Bad rivers run their course
I suppose that's ok with you.
Your daughter has wandered away
And your man is now seventh, maybe eighth down the way
The job that pays you owns you like a slave
It seems that's alright with you.
On short notice you rise before dawn
Don unseen clothes and are gone
This has become the way with you.
And in the gray sky overhead lights,
Haunts and hints of those you once loved
Dashed hearts and promised art unfold
Old light bottled for no time,
Venice in a dream interrupted by rust
Drove that road and missed all the turns
That led to some kind of meaning
I hope you're happy where it takes you.