Alec Solomita’s fiction has appeared in the Southwest Review, The Mississippi Review, Southword Journal, and The Drum (audio), among other publications. He was shortlisted by the Bridport Prize and Southword Journal. His poetry has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Gnashing Teeth Publishing, The Galway Review, Bold + Italic, Litbreak, Subterranean Blue Poetry, The Blue Nib, Red Dirt Forum, and elsewhere.  His chapbook, “Do Not Forsake Me,” was published in 2017 and is still available at Finishing Line Press and Amazon. His first full-length book of poetry was published last April by Kelsay Press. He’s working on another. He lives in Massachusetts.

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Salad Days Sorrow

“Columbo” was on that night
and I was exhausted
from the lively enchantments
of my salad days.

So for once I said no
to a party as I recovered
from the last one
where there was acid

in the punch, and Kenny Lewis
circled through the festivities
holding his crotch and singing,
“It takes two hands to handle a Whopper.”

And even though I trusted Liza
about as far as I could throw
Haystack Calhoun, I decided
to sit on the couch and watch

Peter Falk pretend to stumble
until the trap snapped.
Maybe if I’d known Donny “Fish” Porter
was attending . . .

(Nicknamed thus because
he hauled hem in by the netful
when he was so inclined,
that duplicitous blond Swede)

Liza was a quiet girl and perhaps
as shy as she acted, but she
somehow gave off a pheromone
that said she was good for a tumble.

So later, though I wondered, I didn’t play Columbo,
no tricks, no turning at the last minute
to say, “well wasn’t it nine o’clock then?”
I just made the decision to play it cool.

Until she said Donny Porter
said to her, “You’re a stair-sitter
aren’t you?” “So, you fucked him.”
I replied, getting to the heart of the matter.

My heart, I told her was broken,
though it was my pride that was humbled.
I would’ve split up with her then and there,
but as I mentioned, I was just exhausted,
and, anyway, she was always good for a tumble.