Smoke hangs below the ceiling of the bar
in clouds that drape like scarves around the neck
of the detective, who is tall. She’ll check
names and addresses Later in the car

interrogate a suspect, blond and slim,
who plays piano, with a green eyeshade.
He didn’t do the crime, and won’t get laid.
The private eye’s in love and not with him –

A sultry frail who’s not part of this case –
which she solves easily – sometimes you do.
The murderer had bloodstains on her shoe.
Accused, slaps the detective in the face

and leaves five finger mark. Goes to the chair.
Private eye mourns her, dead, young, cold and fair.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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