“Death will come and she will have your eyes” - Pavese
Hour of the razor & the knife
'How do I know this isn't the same dead gangster with the same brown Fedora? '
-Editor refusing to purchase a Weegee photograph
Shuffled like cards, even mixed
With unfilmed novels, unsold stories, lost poems
It's the first black morning
The old man before you
It was late in the year when the translator
Put down his pen.
Late, & the last leaves falling.
What drove me to devote
My life to erasing the delicate
Frown lines around the mouths
Of discontented women?
She pours a motel glass half full with Pepermint Schnapps,
Toasting her fellow-doomed-
Addressing them, oh so silently,
Calling each by name.
Her rice powdered face tips up from beneath the Chinese lantern
As, in a voice heavy with whiskey & cigarettes, she begins her soliloquy
& you see how gray she's become, waiting for the rain