Mujer Joven Triste

by Steven J. Serafiani

You sent me out,
said your mouth had a rose list.
instead, like the aviator I am, I
flew to neon-
I cannot provide you with what I cannot grow.

I want nylons for my wooden
hollow body; the
classical canine rip of a
rach. As I lay wild,

you played mujer joven triste in
the kitchen and you moaned a
different kind;
still haunts.

You sent me in,
said your life demanded a love missed.
instead, like the Marxist I am, I peered into other skirts-
I cannot provide you with
what I never learned.