all these ex-husbands
of mine, instead of dogging me
like old tattoos, distorted
by wrinkles, faded & stretched by obscene
middle-age, humiliating me with my
unfortunate past lapses in taste.
Why do friends keep me posted:
the one who wouldn’t give me a baby
has adopted two; the one who lied & cheated
for years publishes screeds on Virtue
online; the one who told me I ceased to exist
the moment he walked out of the room
charges 500 an hour for Tarot therapy in the Village.
I walked out of that room seventeen
years ago: why does he still exist?
The one who didn’t want the kid
fights for custody, the millionaire
who repossessed my car pleads poverty.
Why does he have to call and poison
my exquisite hours? Why can’t he keep his lousy
karma to himself? Why doesn’t he drive
into a tree the way he threatened,
à la Jackson Pollock, only—please God—
with no innocent floozies in the car.