The Corporeal Chromium Anti-Dowsers Of Elliott Bay, by Dennis Mahagin

After eight straight sun­ny days, with bare clavicles 
pink-tint­ed as can­dy canes, Pike Street peo­ple keep 
think­ing pos­i­tive in wrap-around Vuarnet 
sun­glass­es, especially 
the Walling­ford gals with teardrop frames 
and pinafores, down at the Pub­lic Fish Market. 
Rhine­stone bar­na­cles cling to their lens rims, 
they call the hop sing sushi boys by Blues Bro names, curtsy, 
and drop their granny glass­es an inch below the nose bridge, 
rifling buck­skin, push­ing sound around: 
Hey, you’re awful cute Jake, 
but what does it take for a Seat­tle girl 
to get some Sock­eye?
Walling­ford babes chew Bub­b­li­cious, they’ve come to soak 
sun, and watch the fly­ing fish­es. Mean­while, Ray-Ban Ninjas 
nod and grin, toss­ing king salmon back and forth 
like Sumo med­i­cine balls. 
Out­side, on the pier, for the eighth straight day, 
two mimes pray like man­ta rays, with twin mon­o­cle mirrors 
for catch­ing the sun glint, slip­pery as sequins wrapped in upside-
down ok signs. Dad's what I'm talkin' about! cries a five-year old 
boy, perched on the shoul­ders of a pok­er-faced Akroyd clone.
Pike Street people 
have got to believe; they High-Five, holding
their iced lattes at arm's length, care­ful not to spill 
a sweet drop of this drought. Back up the Pike, 
pho­to­genic Fil­ipinos take butcher’s block chop­pers to a row 
of slimy Cohos, while the Walling­ford girls get ready to go:
Awwwww, Mary, just SO! … See it thru, 
see the world, Rose! Now… let’s wrap it up 
for sun­ny Sal­ly… Just one more time, Joe!
Den­nis Maha­gin is a writer from the state of Wash­ing­ton. His poems and sto­ries appear in mag­a­zines such as Exquis­ite Corpse, 3 A.M., 42opus, Thieves Jar­gon, Juked, Sto­ry­glos­sia, Absinthe Lit­er­ary Review, Pequin, Key­hole, FRiGG, Rum­ble Microfic­tion, Under­ground Voic­es, and Stir­ring: A Lit­er­ary Col­lec­tion. A first book of his poems, enti­tled Grand Mal, is forth­com­ing from Rebel Satori Press.

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