In the polyglot
Unmelted pot of Hartford's South End,
The grocers' shelves sag
With feta and icons, rices and beans,
Irish tea, plum tomatoes, plantains, collard greens,
Something for everyone,
Except maybe the gods,

Who, bored stiff by Olympian views, have arrived
To while away a century or two
In the new world, so-called.
They've got themselves jobs and houses,
They pay taxes and union dues. All but Cupid,

Who lives with Venus
In one of those bungalows on Freeman Street,
Still, forever, mama's boy.

Get a job, Cupie , she scholds. I'll buy the suit .

The days come and go, and he's still rolling his rosy
Dollop of flesh out of bed
At noon. A mug of ambrosia-latte in one hand,
He yawns, flips on the PC:

" Junctions of Love, " " Macho-Matches, " " Heart-throb, Inc., "
All the dot-coms where the lonely post
Their photos and fetishes.

What's left for a minor deity
Who once brought one and one together
With an arrow's stinging buss? Poor Cupid. He's feeling
Awfully low-tech.

But why re-tool?
He gets a government check
(His disability, " inoperable wings " ).
And there's always something going on
At the Maple Cafe,

Kathleen wiping the bar down, Miguel chalking up a cue.
Cupid loves the smell of the place, sweaty, smoky,
Vaguely secretional. His vinyl stool waiting.
Shirley, too, with her chronic sass
And festive cleavage.

Cupie, baby , she croons, tilting up
Her bright rouged cheek, swamping him
In flowery perfume.

Psyche, she ain't. But he's tired of that old grief,
And when Shirley invites him
To her small flat on Fairfield Ave.,

When she lies down among her country doodads
And lace-crazed pillows,
Cupid's ready for love
Made in America
Where the coupling's
Diverse as democracy can be.

Look at this pair,
Shirley O'Reilly, Irish-Italian-Puerto Rican,
Cashier at the Worn-a-Bit Shoppe,
And Cupid, Son of Eros, that splurge
That begot a universe.