This is Where I Should Be

by Steven J. Serafiani

I start off every poem with a,
“This is where I should be.”
then quickly backspace to clean
hell, with a typewriter, harder
I have been quartered for most of my life;
a slow hoof pull torture.

Slouch and eat a big bowl of gumbo bayou
see the teal porcelain bottom
then stare into my spoon
aint no Mardi Gras
shit, just the eyes have packed bags.

Look fondly through ten foot two pane windows
watch a ballet troupe through in a mid-July Brooklyn mood
elegant figurine creatures gracing hardwood
the slender allongé; oh man oh man the fingertip reach
in an ungraceful aplomb, only the drunkard’s feet leave

Sip latte on 12th ave. with a bustle
write my monumental piece as monument needle looks fondly
talk philosophy with ma and pa shopkeeper
share a sidewalk smoke with a brunette and her siberian
I share with a frost bitten window as across street light flickers.

Let feet be serenaded in Big Sur stream
the gods delight amongst Ponderosa pines and Pacific lap
the zig-zag of my being retires dutifully
cleansed in ambient fortuna; Esselen welcomes me
house rattled as O’hare lines ’em up; the roar of Boeing blues.