Queen of Pentacles Forty dollars: a moderate sum for front-row seats to the latest debacle. She bought you with a couple gin and tonics and a plate of flesh. Two thousand miles: a trip you’ll never take again, because eventually you’d need to work for love. Your colleague complained that you were lazy, left tasks for him to do. I can’t clean up your soiled bathroom, the moldy shower curtain hanging upside down to dry, or the fan that runs for hours to hide all traces of your habits. Your blinds pulled down, your phone shut off and never charged. So much I was unwilling to witness: even as I rode your bicycle with its flattened tires and was struck by a random motorist a few blocks from your home. How I wish I had loved anyone else, even a stranger in a bar, or someone from the internet wearing a cowboy hat, looking for an honest woman. At least I would know where I stood. But you slip like rain through crevices, find the lowest ground, as I swim in your leaden puddles, searching for sky.