pop supernova
he sang, umbrella, i danced in my stool, swirling a striking little pink cocktail parasol.
did i hear him sing you can be my cinderella, yes?
it must be alcohol, or he sang to me -no, change it, through me- i went home humming, tiptoeing over street puddles.
but i’m a man, another man, shouldn’t be lusting over -or say, adoring- another man.
come into me, i sings, stuttering halftone, crossing through green light.
screech!
ten to midnight.
a pumpkin car?
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