Port Paint; There Just Wasn’t Enough
by Steven J. Serafiani
She parted her hair like
a harlow. Said it was her harlot
doo and due to this, the
postman hadn’t come ’round in weeks; “I just throw ’em away.”
I poured her some port and
she dumped it on the carpet,
pushed her fingers into fibers and
painted; “Rambling red droplets,” she sang.
She lit a candle in my bathrobe, blew it out just
as quickly. Then disrobed and folded
it like flag; placed it at the edge of
“I don’t know who I am anymore but I must find Kafka.”
With that she left.
I went to the window, looked below and saw her;
naked and washed in a late night humid rain, hailing imaginary yellows.