Desperation, thick:

by Steven J. Serafiani

Why is there always sorrow in truck stop diner food?
urban hand me downs hunched in mint green booths
I feel the firework tent pitched parking lot gunpowder glare
too much for the solitary broken phone outside to bear
the overall clad nomads chain smoking cigarettes by diesel pumps meander in
steak and eggs
served by a woman mid-forties who has never left town
I sip my black tar porcelain brim
grin in my temporal existence
one more night at that inn
one more caramel glass blown medicine
then headed back to populous repetition
to those city cowards hidden in shrub sin
the selfish click of the heel and bostonian
I’ll feel better then.

I’ve got a bobbed brunette ballerina to the west
she’s drinking tea and painting purple and orange leaves on the baluster
she tempts my vagabond mouth to stay statue
remember that night at the Bellevue?
but I know she’s left crescent
back up pacific northwest in a corset
shuffled on and slung into a new chest
we’ve blotted like a Rorschach test
I should have never left
I’m a pickpocket of other flesh
so maybe I’ll stay in this town’s lawlessness
cause this is where I feel the best
holed up in that weathered tin
black eyed ceiling gazing Sumerian
cause I’m thick
in desperation and
I’m no
desperado.

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