Janna Layton

The lucky cat figurine
wears a faded “I voted” sticker
and beckons the audience into the small lobby,
which smells of popcorn,
as any cinema should.

By the napkins,
a bubbling countertop fountain presents
a horse and dragon
in carnival-prize ceramic.

Hot tea,
cold mints,
old carpet.

The doorway leads to a shoebox diorama:
battered floorboards,
empty seats,
walls and ceiling a shade of burgundy
that warms the darkness,
the screen blank and waiting
and framed in gold.

All these will hold you
until the kung-fu kick or Appalachian rifle ends the fight,
until the credits roll over a desert or blackness
and you wander out onto Clement Street,
the fog lit by neon.

JANNA LAYTON lives in San Francisco. Her poetry and fiction have been published or are upcoming in various literary journals, including Mythic Delirium, Apex, Goblin Fruit, The Golden Key, and Star*Line. She blogs at readingwatchinglookingandstuff.blogspot.com.

William Greenfield

The contrast of stainless steel to ample breasts
far out trumps a sheer negligee and fluffy pillows.
The marriage of derrière to cherry wood
is an unexpected pleasure, like finding
Ben Franklin in a pair of worn and fading Wranglers.
No violins.
No scented oils.
The hum of the dishwasher
is pornographic foreplay.
I have got to find a new place
for this fucking spice rack.
Counter space is at such a premium.

Winner of Storyteller Magazine’s People’s Choice Award in 2012, WILLIAM GREENFIELD has had poems published in numerous literary journals, including The Westchester Review, Carve Magazine, The East Coast Literary Review, and others. After a long career in federal service, he is semi-retired and resides in Liberty, NY.

Heikki Huotari

Science Daily says if I’m an artificial
atom and I hang out near my mirror
then I’ll live ten times as long
so I prioritize my images by wingspan,
size and color in a velvet box. Because
I have no children and have never
been in prison or a foxhole,
I’m still free to disbelieve.
And I have three degrees of freedom.
Nothing rotates quite like pie at night
when I’m invisible in my gorilla mask
and astrally projected and Madonna
and I share an office while we’re young,
moonlighting as adjunct professors.

HEIKKI HUOTARI is a retired professor of mathematics. In a past century, he attended a one-room country school and spent summers on a forest-fire lookout tower. His poems have appeared in several journals, including Poetry Northwest and Crazyhorse. A chapbook is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.