Here’s Looking at You
Homage to Casablanca
When I was Rick,
white tuxedo jacketed,
Camel smoldering between my fingertips,
lording over my gin joint
like Justinian at the Hippodrome,
I shivered when Ilsa
strode through the door
on the arm
of a debonair freedom fighter
in double-breasted seersucker.
Went off to fight the good fight,
got my face blown off
by a Nazi potato masher,
remained in a coma till V.E. Day,
then passed into the Hollywood Hills,
never making the final scene,
at Van Nuys airport,
strolling into the fog
of the coming Allied victory.
On Hollywood Boulevard
there are no Ilsas anymore.
Only Harvard mafia
pitching their next “Betty Hutton”
or Dune 72.
I cruise Ventura
searching for a Swedish blonde.
I find only day laborers
from Guatemala
hoping to catch a break.
South on the 405
into gridlock and neurosis.
Finally make it to Pann’s
for a cup of morning coffee
that tastes of ancient fantasies
I’m unable to discard.
What will happened when Ilsa enters the room?
Lost in Space
Did Major Don West ever make love with Judy Robinson?
The Robinsons were sent to Alpha Centauri to start a colony.
Judy, of the canary yellow mini dress,
never wanted to leave Earth.
She had so many officers asking her out,
she could have dated till Earth turned to cinder.
But when she met Major West,
flesh tough as leather, hair thick as thatch,
she was first on line for lift off.
Did he take her behind a sand dune to introduce her to the art of passion?
Did he order the robot to keep watch so Dr. Smith wouldn’t discover what they
were up to?
Did father John and mother Maureen know that their oldest had lost her virtue?
Did Penny and little Will cover their ears when they heard her moan,
“Don…Don…” in the middle of the galactic night?
If Judy Robinson had flirted with me,
I would have stolen a rocket,
knocked the Webb telescope out of orbit,
and met her on any planet she chose.
But girls like Judy don’t flirt with me.
Even if I wore general’s stars,
shiny as supernovas,
they would never give me a second look.
That’s why I should go into space
and start a colony,
a colony of misfits,
Major West and Judy Robinson not allowed.
Let them go make love on some asteroid.
I will look toward the horizon
and bask in the sun.
John Attanas was born, raised, and still lives in New York City. In 2025 he received a M.F.A. from the City College of New York. He has been previously published in The Marbled Sigh, and was most recently published in Hawaii Pacific Review.
The Marbled Sigh 