Film Noir Ii Poem by Sonny Rainshine

He was perspiring like the greasy spoon’s
plate glass windows on a subzero afternoon,
the drizzle of convection a reaction to the heat within;
the heat was on.

The confectioner’s sugar, dusting the day-old donuts
on the diner’s formica counter, reminded him of colder climates,
powdery snow on the curvaceous mountains back East.

The splattered globs of Heine’s ketchup
oozing on a platter of oily french fries,
made him think not of snowmen and sleighs,
but of things less benign,
like the messy corpse lying prostrate
on the carpet back home.

Home. The idea seemed quaint,
nostalgic, even. Just as his home had seemed a prison,
now a prison would be his home,
once the coppers caught the scent.
Just like the contents of the cheap ashtray
brimming with the detritus
of countless men before him,
strapped for cash, desparate, starved for love,
his future was gray and crumbled.

In the mammoth oval mirror behind the counter,
he thought he saw a sudden movement:
a little boy, about 5 or 6,
seemed to stare back at him
from some far away place and time.
He imagined he heard the phantom say:
Why did you do this to me?