When things started to become
apparent, I started having dreams.

In one, she came out of his room
in lingerie, smoking.  When I asked

what she was doing, she smoked
at me with unutterable

contempt.  In another, she scattered
invective over me on the porch,

and when she left, slamming the door, he
apologized for her, hoped I would understand.

After things became apparent
the dreams slowed.  But last night

I dreamed he was having
a yard sale, selling everything he’d bought

for her and never given her.
I walked down the long

tables, gold-beaded jewelry,
Spanish leather boots, mauve and yellow ochre

scarves and dresses, boxes
of Swan Lake records.