Seine in Nebraska
By Bartlett Hornfeather
We drove in the vernacular
through cornfields clear to Paris
I reclined in the arrondissement
of your elbow—some navigator.
Our wheels fallen off, a farmer
offered us his stairs for what
I’ll never know. Your lips
a pair of barges shipping coals
to Bordeaux Quebec or plain
Cincinnati? You took a local
saw as your paramour. Flashbulbs
hissed in saloon mirrors. Crows
talked. You unveiled a perfect pair
of bloomers and a vicious talent
for Can-can. They thrust me down
to the piano thanks to the skimmer
I’d worn for a lark. How well sang
the farmer. The saw wobbled jokes.
I asked can we leave. You replied
we can we can
oh yes we can-can.
Bartlett Hornfeather earned his B.A in Recreation and Sport Leadership from Eastern Mennonite University. He currently works has a performance consult to various A1-level high school basketball teams throughout the Midwest. He enjoys wandering through tall grass with his dog, Crustacean. A lifelong admirer of poetry, this is his first publication.
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