The man who'd placed
his hand on the barstool was
watching him closely.
BILL knew this was a rival or maybe just a corpse-to-be.
Pulling off his jacket, he rolled up his sleeves, ordered a
martini and brushed off the fear as if it were a niggling bit
of fluff stuck to his shirt.
At the bar, a pair of dark glasses said MURIEL was about,
in the flesh no doubt.
She took off, made her way toward the convertible, and
crossed the parking lot.
(The cafeteria was closed.)
Sounding brakes have always had
a grip on a hero's heart.
She makes herself up again in the rearview
(The shape of the eyes alone suffices to express the
complexity of the face.)
Thinking of flowers.
One should arrange as many as possible in fugitive spaces.