three poems
by Steven M. Smith
Questions for a Professional Cuddler
Can I bring my favorite blankie with ditsy
dairy cows jumping over crescent moons?
Can I bring my special pillow, the one stuffed
with the crumbled scent of Cocoa Puffs and Froot Loops?
Can I wear my bestie red onesie with the funny
butt flap that reads Do Not Block Door?
But what if, while cuddling up, I saunter down
the starry suburban sidewalk of Pacifier Place, drift
asleep, and start drooling like a Bernese Mountain dog?
And then what if I stray in my snoring from the white
picket fences and climbing perennials of Pacifier Place,
stagger, descend deeper and further toward the wrong side
of Nighty Night and drivel into the slums of slumber, lost,
disoriented, eventually stumbling into the dark alley of REM
in my bare feet tightrope walking shards of glass
across puddles of urine and blood, covering my ears
to smother the broken jaws of dumpsters leaking
a squeal of rats and a bludgeoning of trash cans,
crumpled, moaning against the brick walls smeared
with whimpering graffiti where I am finally accosted
once again by a gang of evil cartoon characters from my past—
Simon Bar Sinister, Snidely Whiplash, the Sea Hag,
Boris Badenov, Bluto?
From the Psychiatrist’s Notebook: Screenwriting Professor Shares His Dreams About a Former Mistress
Session 1:
He watched her dancing slowly, braless, in a wet
tuxedo shirt, the buttons beginning to let loose,
in an aerial cage hanging like an out-of-order traffic light
above a busy intersection—flames and smoke
spurting from vehicles colliding in the congestion below.
Session 2:
He heard her sitting cross-legged in jean shorts
and crochet halter top pounding out erotic screenplays
on a manual typewriter at a coffee table under an arousal
of nimbus clouds—the mountain boulder beneath her
moaning on the drooling edge of a cliff.
Session 3:
He felt her slip then flee from his embrace
at a Halloween bash throbbing in a mansion hosted
by a playful gentleman in a smoking jacket—the gnarled
fingers of three photogenic witches sewn to his jacket sleeves.
Session 4:
He smelled her in a musty wedding gown hitched up
to her waist straddling a trunk of driftwood on a familiar
shore and singing a song about waiting—
bare feet digging a shallow grave in the sand.
Session 5:
He tasted the chocolate torte on her thumb and forefinger
as she fastened his lips, whispering something as if from
a distance, but her mouth was right between his eyes—
as he began once again to squirm, whimper, and wince awake.
Happy Hour Men of the 1990s
They had to accelerate after work . . . away
from their frowning houses, where their spouses
perspired and sighed into pots of soup and laundry bins.
Ahhh, the buy-one-get-one-free drafts!
The “How ya doin’?” slaps on the back.
The “What’s goin’ on?” squeeze of the hands.
The inconsiderate phone under the Free Beer Tomorrow
sign was constantly ringing, threatening, ringing—
then the grumbling unison of “I’m not here!”
The pickled sausages and pickled eggs in the murky
jars could have been the unfaithful genitals of the caught.
The f-bombs exploded at the pinball machine.
Music videos belched on the big screen TV.
And another eight ball leapt from the stained
felt into the abyss of the wrong pocket.
And after they forgot about their kids’
Little League game or open house or dance recital,
the happy hour men of the 1990s slipped
from their stools like shit-faced slapstick extras,
their blurred vows finally yanking
them by the short hairs home—
Photo of Steven M. Smith
BIO: Steven M. Smith is the author of the poetry collection Strongman Contest (Kelsay Books, 2021). His poetry has appeared in The American Journal of Poetry, The Worcester Review, Rattle, Ibbetson Street Press, Better Than Starbucks, The Big Windows Review, Book of Matches, Offcourse, Hole in the Head Review, Third Wednesday, and Action, Spectacle.