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Cannolis after the Emmys
By Vanessa Blakeslee
Champagne pops in the limo—
we round Times Square—it’s an honor just to be nominated—
before we cross the river.
Brooklyn Bridge twinkles in the night. But only for one drink.
Back in mid-town, you want cannolis.
We do a drive-by in Little Italy. Pizza wheels
spin in the air like Saturn’s rings, midnight strikes,
and couples eat slices on the steps. You order,
the only one inside wearing a tuxedo.
You parade out with the Styrofoam boxes held high,
like a waiter, shouting the movie line,
someone shouts back—the sidewalk laughs.
On the back of the limo we scarf down cannolis,
cheeks puffed, lips and chins frosted white.
Two vanish with Sergei, the driver. This is better
than an Emmy, I warble. An old gold statue.
You say, tomorrow I’ll take you
to Chicago.
Vanessa Blakeslee received an MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine
Arts. Her short fiction and poetry have appeared in Harpur Palate, The Bellingham Review, The Georgetown Review, The New York Quarterly, and Southern Poetry Review, among others. She directs Maitland Poets & Writers, a community organization dedicated to fostering the growth of the literary arts in Central Florida. Find Vanessa online at www.vanessablakeslee.com.
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