The arthritic ceiling fan turns slowly.
Its dull blades cut air, which drips humidity.The second hand of an old clock
behind the bar grinds minutes
into neon-lit sand, which piles up
in hourly dunes. The jukebox
in a shadowed corner coughs out
brassy swing from brittle records
spinning 78rpm. At the bar, I tip
my hat's brim up, then sip
a shot glass full of rye. As
I swallow the burn,
she walks in from the night.
Black dress, red lipstick,
luxuriant blond hair--tucked back
with a glinting diamond barrette.
She said to meet her here,
so I meet her here and let her
hire me to find her husband
whom the cops won't seek to find
in a city full of persons
missing and presumed....
Of course I know already
she had a hand in killing him
and will try to seduce me
into killing the man who
killed him--who now blackmails her.
She kisses me and leaves her
lipstick brand on my stubbled cheek.
She touches my holstered gun.
The plot will unspool over
a grubby week of shadows
in which I'll get beat up
and legally kill. She'll
coo, then shriek, before the cops
haul her off in rusted cuffs.
I'll keep the cash, which keeps me
going--and coming back here
to sip my rye, and wipe my brow,
and talk to salty dames and broken
strangers about nothing
in this flat sizzling city
built on nothing but a dead dream.
And the ceiling fan keeps turning.
hans ostrom 2022
