before that i was a waitress.
i didn't want to go to chicago with you.
i wanted to marry you, i wanted
your wife to suffer.
i wanted her life to be like a play
in which all the parts are sad parts.
does a good person
think this way? i deserve
credit for my courage -
i sat in the dark on your front porch.
everything was clear to me:
if your wife wouldn't let you go
that proved she didn't love you.
if she loved you
wouldn't she want you to be happy?
i think now
if i felt less i would be
a better person. i was
a good waitress.
i could carry eight drinks.
i used to tell you my dreams.
last night i saw a woman sitting in a dark bus -
in the dream, she's weeping, the bust she's on
is moving away. with one hand
she's waving; the other strokes
and egg carton full of babies.
the dream doesn't rescue the maiden.
