(another noir interlude)
Here's to trouble. It
rains a lot here. You go out
in the rain I think. You're the type.
Your coat reminds you of Bogart.
You drink whiskey in a bar. You notice the earlobes on women.
I see you. Yeah I see
you leaning there, a faint frown
throwing stones into your forehead.
I don’t know you from anyone.
So
tell me
what you’ll do tonight
at 4 am, when the
stray women and ceiling fans cease their slow circling
and the rain doesn't let up
and the whiskey runs out.