how many mad men will she screw
and accrue throughout
the years? maybe later strolling
down a park bench in her mid
thirties, baby in a carriage, she’ll
see an old flame
lying on a stoop, burnt out with a
liquor bottle gripped in a muggy grasp
of grit and grime. he’s talking to god
right now, just like you used to do
with your crystals and weed and pill
cocktails. what, you’re better cuz you
got a kid? he might hint at, might murmur through slobber-mouth.
because she got a house upstate
in some forested sanctuary away from
the politics, the poor, the people that remind
her of the bad, she feels good. good. good.
maybe it’s in the hamptons, the house. maybe it’s on the
west coast. she holds baby trevor, or trey, or trish
close to her breast. people can be so mean,
she blinks behind shades that cost upwards of three hundred and fifty dollars.