Four Poems

Things Get Better Before They Get Worse

I find you drinking bourbon
with a teenager—
let’s not leave her out of this,
or the fact that you don’t drink.

I command a river view,
and like a widow watch the boats;
my roommates trot their babies out
to make a wetnurse out of me.

Are you listening?
(No time for that—now let his hand
go at the fat part of your leg.
Now be a good girl and go back to bed.)

A stranger on the answering machine:
“I think I’ve got exactly what you’re looking for.
Tons of light; water on three sides.”
They ask after you at the garage;
I tell them little lies.