last night you told me you were
surveying the property lines
of her New England estates
through satellite eyes.
and i could not fathom this girl i am not:
tennis whites and riding boots
aligned in neat closets,
turned-up starched collars
and gold at her wrists.
i've got jealousy thickening in my veins
making silver sickles out of blood-platelet dimes.
it breaks me up until i'm a puddled spill, lapping
at the floor tiles.
for how could you love me beside her?
she's got a house in Nantucket—
clapboard beach mansion,
shuttered Victorian seaside retreat.
envy curls its mean fist 'round my thin throat
because for her, you're always in reach
while i'm stuck clutching at insurmountable miles
and empty mailboxes.