Tube Works
by Marica Szendry
On Sunday we are
expelled
from the comfort
of the subterranian
labrynth
into a new world
of concrete, steel
and the unfamiliar
architecture
of a nominally half-way
place.
I think I know the
city
until I walk its street,
catch its buses.
Confused, I blink
and grunt
like a displaced
minotaur.
Musician
by Anna Bilbao
We met at a bar and
began talking about
music
and stuff.
When I asked what
sort of band you were in
you told me
“deathrock”.
I paused before
nodding
embarrassed
and moving on to the weather.
Elvis Impersonator
by Ashley Fisher
Little Elvis is in the foyer,
entertaining the types that arrive
early to the theatre in his ill-fitting
jumpsuit and turmeric tan.
For the next twenty minutes he
is slave to the tape which presses
on regardless of the surrounding
apathy and the notes he invariably misses.
In one moment of uncharacteristic
showmanship, he gives a scarf to
the daughter of my blonde companion
who he appears to have taken a shine to.
Soon, we will take our own places on
stage in the studio theatre and our Elvis
will mourn his twenty minutes of
showbusiness down the drain.
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