In which the girl that used to count
my weekly pay deposits has become
a general’s wife.
In which the fishmonger’s son has turned
real estate person and is buying up
all remaining land.
In which the fourth mayor’s daughter came home
from a failed career in the city, and broke windows
of parked cars each time the moon was high.
In which the lawyer’s widow bought pastries
every shade of pink, dusted with sugar—
to eat in the park under a willow tree.