Serial Poem: Poem Noir Part VII

Part VII

The room was one big filing cabinet.
Cold steel drawers
containing cold cadavers.
T.C. shivers.
He doesn’t want to end up a corpse
in storage.
But we all do,
eventually.
“You’re lucky,”
says his friend,
“She goes under tomorrow.”

The bright fluorescent light
seeps into the dark corners
of the drawer as it is pulled out.
In this light
he can see the resemblance to his Client.
In her face
he can see
his Client’s lips and desire
Her lust on fire –
it can’t be love,
having only just lost it.

And there was the hand
that held the knife.
He was sure of that.
Her long slender fingers,
pale in death,
once pulsed anger?
Greed?
Jealousy?
What made her split from her lover?
T.C. holds her hand up.
Cold,
as the steel drawer she lay on.
I wonder if it’s as cold as the knife?
T.C. Brown finds humour macabre
at the best of times.

He lets her hand fall quickly to her side.
Then he sees
nails unpainted.
“Did you clean her nails?” he asks.
“Never touched her,” says his friend,
“She is now as she was then.”
Pale, cold and waiting
for a resting-place.

Friend pulls out another drawer.
Broken nose, rude awakening,
frozen. Hand opened.
“Where was he found?” asks T.C.
“One floor up, two doors down.
Three bodies, the same night,
the same street.”
“Tragedy strikes in three.”

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