Confusion on a Polyamorous Main St.

by Steven J. Serafiani

All of these beautiful freckled sireens have kids,
their song now a
meal of meat vegetable potato.

The Paris review readers sip cyanide sodas
with a
straw and profess to
love themselves with too
many syllables that
they lose

Sunday drivers In their
mustard green convertibles,
left hand turns, all blaring folk in
their leather rubber

I just want a cup of soup but
mathematicians wearing
bloodlines and
fishnets keep
yelling about constants with
sunglass grin.

Smoke a cigarette in the
middle of model quintet minus catwalk,
they all cough and
wave their hand in front of their
face but want a
polished fuck just the

And where does this leave me?
Still got thoughts of
dogwood and ferry tickets all
the same-
yet all around,
tabletop magicians are
hoping that
this apprentice’s
swift pull doesn’t bring
wine glasses to the