Serial Poem : Poem Noir

Part III

Late afternoon,
heavy traffic,
crowded footpaths.
T.C. climbs stairway.
Apartment door open.
Flash of camera bulb.
Flash of grey suit and blue uniform.
He turns away.
“More of your handiwork?”
says Angles.
T.C. smiles.
“I don’t know.”
Angles invites him inside.
Body on floor, pool of blood,
stained black suit.

T.C. shrugs.
“You were watching them.”
says Angles,
“Too busy shooting a dame to see the knife?
Who’s the client?”
“If you know the victim, then you’ll know the client.”
Angles is all false gratitude.

T.C. eyes the room.
Tidy, everything in its place,
except the body.
Box of chocolates on the table,
feeding cops, hiding card.
He picks it up.
“To Mary, with love.”
Poor chump, fell for Mary in a bad way.
T.C. Brown finds humour macabre
at the best of times.

T.C. dials the number for the nth time.
The tone rings endlessly,
ending only when the phone is on the hook.
T.C. Brown doesn’t like it
when the client isn’t there
to hear bad news.


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