casablanca lily cowardice

by Steven J. Serafiani

I can’t imagine a bundle of joy
right now. Thirty, unwed,

zero munchkins rooting around my
free time. I’ll stay in
society’s sweltering spotlight
glare for as long as I can.

Right now, my bundle consists of
(pack of spirits, a bottle of
bottom shelf bourbon, my typewriter and
the occasional metra city brunette
one night only playbill)


As I drank my coffee, a
disheveled man walked in with
a swaddled joey stuck to
his chest. I laughed hysterically as
I read William Carlos- my naked
ring finger tapping the table,
delighting in its nakedness.
Wanted to

tell him that I smoked a joint
with bohemians at a metra
city apartment party last
night. I, the

casablanca lily, he the rafflesia.
I, the

Cafe Wha?, he the Cotton Club. I
watched as he sullenly fumbled
for his wallet as that
sleeping millstone drooled from
his midsection. Then,

millstone awoke, squeak stretched, babbled
and touched his father’s face. He
beamed joy. Boy-

closed book, slumped and
drooped in
flaunted cowardice.