Confusion on a Polyamorous Main St.

by Steven J. Serafiani

All of these beautiful freckled sireens have kids,
their song now a
hollow
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
themselves.

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

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
same.

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
floor.

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