Monday, July 27, 2009

refrigerator poetry

he growls
pulls out a gun the guy nerves my body me him in a dark room
she was a librarian a pretty girl funny business like flips a coin
and gamble

a light the truth a femme fatale is trying to kill she has bullets
working her charm the kisser smells like my cigarettes

pistol-whipped I wake up in big trouble somebody has been found
who did it he didn’t some mug a shot the loot you someone falls to the floor
at the bar a chump

a bohemian type know nothing rotten bloody shooting on a tough guy hot damnation
it was in the hallway punches are flying legs footprints a fist across the chops

no good cabbages in the lake I say and I think my husband his wife a clue

he is out of swell and it’s about to take out

we give him thanks

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