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(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.