Go fund yourself, I replied when you asked for money.
Begging at burnt bridges surprises nobody, but even
on your Jesus year, you wait on rooftops for miracles
and shoo away would-be friends who won’t pay
to be your clients. You say you’ve earned success,
but what have you done besides plant azaleas
you quit watering when the summer arrived?
The waves washed up your sandcastles,
and your resume has no references because nobody
returns your calls anymore. Those who do,
you threaten to sue or accuse of assault
to shake them down for some investor capital.
I satisfied your wanderlust for a weekend—you burnt me
the next, but I’m not upset the plans we made withered.
I don’t miss your shadow boxing or your crazy antics,
but you aren’t crazy, just spoiled. Exotic eastern spiritualities
can’t fill the holes Hollywood and Paris left in you.
I can’t either—your problems are too large
for my quaint life cultivated through crises you experienced
but never adapted to. You still wear the ring and dress
with a oneway ticket back to your hometown
to see your should’ve-been husband again.
Strike your flint to reignite old flames, but
you already scorched your earth. Ashes won’t burn again.
Say hi to his new family for me.
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