Serial Poem: Poem Noir

Part IV

Smell of polish.
Teak on antique,
pine on wood,
bourbon on breath.
“Bourbon is a man’s drink,”
slurs Client,
“Bourbon was his drink.”
She slides on buffed leather couch,
stark white, blinding in the sunlight.
She moves. Graceful as a man-o-war.
“Why are you smiling?” she asks.
T.C. smiles.
“I don’t know.”

And they both laugh.
T.C. Brown would rather he was back
in the darkness behind the lamppost
watching shadows dance.
T.C. Brown hates bad news and new cases.
“Find the bitch who killed my husband.”
“Her name was Mary.”
“Mary had a little man,
I should know,
I slept with him too.”

Angles at the front door.
“So you’re here too,”
he says all smiles and trapdoors.
“Calling on a client,”
says T.C.
“What was the job, a hit?”
“Tail her husband.”
“What about her sister?”
“What about her sister?”

“What about my sister?
What she done?”
Client hangs on door for support.
“She was shot,” says Angles,
“And your friend was at the scene of the crime.”
“Not Marilyn!”
and Client collapses.
Angles stares at T.C. Brown.
“There are questions, you have answers.”

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