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. His first full-length book of poetry, “Hard To Be a Hero,” was published  by Kelsay Press in 2021. Both can be found on Amazon. He’s working on another. He lives in Massachusetts.

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The End of Romance

We disdained the word “hippie”
but let’s face it, that’s what we were,
tumbling by thumb from the suburbs into
Harvard Square to sit on the stone wall

across from Cardell’s and the bookstore,
smoking cigarettes or, if we were lucky,
a bit of grass. We disdained the word “pot,”
in articles about hippies from Time Magazine

or spoken by clueless parents who loved us
but were puzzled by the “new generation.”
They didn’t understand us, but really
what was there to understand?

Boys will be boys, and girls, well girls,
never changed, girls, sitting beside
us. Girls, everyone understood,
hair to the waist, skirts to the thigh,

still back then controlling desire,
as boys fought to make out,
to get to second base,
or with some girls, even

third or sometimes actually touching
home plate on the fly. Nowadays
it’s different, some things do change.
And girls will be boys, taking the lead,

learning seduction from social media
learning to enjoy ménage à cinq,
new mysterious portals, toys.
Easy as pie. And my generation shakes

its collective head.
As Wilde said,
“the very essence
of romance is uncertainty.”

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“Is a Very Very Very Fine House”

The folks upstairs are brilliant.
Today a box arrived
on the front porch
as big as a bicycle.
It was a bicycle, along
with instructions on how
to build it. That is the
kind of genius who lives upstairs:
he’d rather build a bike
than buy one.
His wife as well,
is a wizard,
Although I’m not sure
she could build a bike,
she gardens
like Luther Burbank.
Downstairs is me
who sleeps all day
and reads his phone
when he’s awake.
I like our menage —
Edison, Burbank upstairs,
Rip Van Winkle down here.
Something cozy
about the whole thing.