Sandy Ostrau © 2020
routine Maintenance
Black leaves fly past
a bee at the window.
Lilly plays piano
in her mind
while the man in pinstripe
overalls pulls out a gilt-embossed
deck of cards.
How nice, she thinks, he wants to play;
he probably has a good mind for numbers.
Is she even or odd?
On the filmy window, to an adagio,
the bee knocks.
“M’am, Solitaire?” The refrain. Her fingers, wrinkled—
so thin a child could fit them all in one fist;
the bee trails a chain of dust.
Yes, solitaire. Her
mind shifts
from the scratch and crack
of the black plastic chair, it drifts
from the mechanic’s wedding ring
and the obnoxious, helpless, machine of a bee
to rolling lawns
and the fountain sound
of a long dead lover’s bike
trailing behind her, just far enough
to capture her laughter on film.
by Katie Brunero
Fantastic pleasures
Someone somewhere
is living your dream:
basking in the glow of mint green
wallpaper and laughing, leaning
into her first
soda fountain make-out
with a girl all cologne and bubblegum,
while outside the pharmacy window,
Savanah’s Spanish moss
dips towards a dusky cemetery seraph
holding thin yellow leaves,
fetid bird-shit water, and half-smoked butts
in the pool of her fingers,
head tilted down,
trying not to smile.