the projectionist

by Steven J. Serafiani

Another bar,
this one has two pool tables,
I fucking hate pool tables,
but it does have a goddess,
the one illuminated by the dusty halo,
accentuating that form fitting blue dress,
I hope she smokes,
I hope she’s a drunkard,
please let her have a mental illness,
or at least clinical depression,
cause we all sit in that booth,
high above,
running that reel to reel,
projecting ourselves onto counterparts,
hopeful love interests,
lust interests,
we all want suburbia,
the cookie cutter complexes,
matching chimneys,
crab grass,
warped fences,

maybe it’s just me.