What was she doing when the bullet shrieked into
The pit of her stomach. Was she arranging
Her looks while they listened to a big band station?
And the killer. Did he disappear down desperation alley
Leaving fingerprints stumbling over the homeless?
Her body laid like a figurine, statued to a floor,
Coupled with a distorted face, a Hippocratic smile;
Eyes white as marble, once black as pearls.
Smell of a jilted lover and prohibition whiskey hung
Cheaply in the air like an unhinged door. A clue perhaps.
To cops, she was known as the lady under a dim street
Lamp; years burning her life away. Prostituting
Her body to blind smiles and old men crying for it. She
Was guilty of nothing, they kissed her quite insane,
She should have fallen for a good man instead; closed her eyes
Hoping for the world to die. Metro police car light and siren
Screaming, arranging itself through traffic, drove into a crime
Scene, a dark homicide. A detective whose fingers had the nose of
A bloodhound sniffed his way up to the apartment. Put her in a body bag
Stiffened, odors bled; the city never cried, washed their hands of it.
The eyes of a killer were breathing down the barrel of his
Thirty-eight revolver. Moving slug-like, the trigger clicked back;
Bullet ricocheted off a gold star badge and dug itself into plaster.
Matching grooves from a smoking gun got him arrested. A trial,
A sentence. Two pin legs staggering to a chair. Dead men cry from it.
Copyright © 01/28/18 lance sheridan®