Serial Poem: Poem Noir Part VI

Part VI

Late afternoon.
T.C. watches the world
fill the street outside.
The grey lampposts patiently wait
for the sun to go down.
The world rushes to beat it home.

“Don’t turn around,”
says Baritone.
T.C. curses himself.
He hates surprises.
“What do you know?”
“I don’t know,”
T.C. says.
He feels the barrel of a gun
pressed into his back.

“Police say I did it,”
he says,
“She was killed
in the street.”
“We don’t care,”
says Baritone,
“Our man was shot
in his apartment.”
T.C. asks “What did he have?
Why was he there?
Who was he meeting?”

“You ask too many questions.”
T.C. hears the swing,
feels the butt on the back of his head
and collapses into darkness.

In the pain of memory
T.C. Brown sees Angles.
“Neighbours say two,
twenty minutes between.
We found the second stiff in the apartment.”
He recalls the fall into his Client’s flesh.
The voices in the darkness.
“Diamond?”
“Money?”
Painted nails curling around the handle.
The client’s painted smile
which dissolves into the cotton wool of sleep.

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